Sand In My Swimsuit

Naming Names

2009-05-03T21:36:00.036-04:00

TODAY'S THE BIG DAY!!! Come here to see us talk live with Ayelet Waldman, author of Bad Mother, at Noon EST.

Those of you who have followed my journey here this year will know the name Ayelet Waldman. You'll know how I wrote about her controversial essay in the New York Times that landed her on Oprah. You'll know how we corresponded and that she was generous enough to send me an advance copy of her new book, Bad Mother. You may even have seen me read from it in my film, The Lark.

Well Bad Mother is back on my radar. It hits shelves and virtual shopping carts May 5th, and I can't wait to start talking about it with all of you.

I pulled it off my own shelf and started reading it again. It's A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace. It's about how we talk about moms, with names like good mother and bad mother. It's about how when we describe a good father, the discourse is sparse. The archetypes few. But when we talk about good mothers, omigod do we have thoughts, and more importantly, names for what she should be.

It's about why that may be the case, and becomes increasingly more the case every day. It's about lots of interesting things like how we use spectacle and "bad moms" like Britney Spears and Andrea Yates to soothe our private fears of bad mothering.

It's about, mom-on-mom crime and how grown women are also guilty of playground bullying. It's about how flipping the paradigm and becoming an openly bad mom, a confessaholic one might say, isn't quite the answer, either. Though it's fun, and you've all seen me do it here and on Twitter often, and you KNOW how I love me some Bombeck, as Waldman says "there is no inherent nutritional value in the antidote to poison." God, I love this woman. One smart cookie.

Most importantly, it's about understanding that in the daily question of Am I a bad or a good mother? Is she a bad or a good mother?, we are wasting precious time looking inward, that could be spent watching our children, and just being curious about them.

This book will make you think about the way you think, and here's what it made me think today. (Warning: I'm about to close my eyes and write, and you all know what happens when I do that.)

My oldest son was eight months old. We'd just finished our first winter together in a tiny apartment in a suburb of Detroit. Mostly, we read and nursed. Well, he worked on the latter, I on the former. I often read out loud so he could hear my voice. I read him Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises and DeLillo's The Names, something I was glad I read after naming him, by the way. I read him some Austen on gray days and some Wharton when I felt like crying anyway, so what the hell. I think he even got some of Foucault's thoughts on sexuality on days I felt particularly jocular.

But on this day, we were going to meet our people. The other moms. The other babes. And I remember thinking, as I approached a group of women, "Finally. Adult conversation." And then I distinctly remember hearing one mother say to the other three standing near the slide that Eddie Bauer's baby clothes had just been marked down. And I remember how surprised I was at the buzz that announcement generated. And I remember my upper lip curling and my eye twitching, instinctively. And then I remember, as I slowly backed away, thinking, "My poor son. He'll never ever be able to play at the playground, because his mommy growls and twitches when she hears other mommies talk."

And then I got over myself and learned to talk "mommy." I'm actually quite affluent in it now. Go ahead, ask me about my warrior-in-potty-training series. And as William grew, I even found comparing the stories interesting. I can do this, I thought. I can BE a soccer mom. But as Ayelet said, I was so "soul-crushingly bored" with the monotony, the lack of engagement, the conversations that refused to be provocative and rested on the safe veneer of re-establishing good-mommy goals.

And then I started blogging. (Big grin.) And then people found me out. And then guess what happens to all the names you've given yourself and all the selves you've become to different people at different times, and to all the names they've given you?

They . . . fall . . . away.

And you can just stand there, and say what you think. Ophelia wades out of the water. The fractured girl collects her parts—the daughter, the sister, the mother, the wife, the reader, the writer, the good mommy on the playground, the bad or sad mommy alone in her home. She gathers them all together, finds where they overlap, and says, "Yes, I like HER. Whatever her name is." And furthermore, I want my children to meet HER.

And I want to talk about that with all of you. So please, say something. Ayelet Waldman is saying something. ModernSingleMomma is saying something. Ria Sharon is saying something. Suzanne Tucker, ZenMommy, is saying something. Leigh Caraccioli, Fleurdeleigh, is saying something. Many of you are saying something on Twitter, by adding #badmother to your thoughts. You can join any of us on Twitter, by finding our Twitter links on our sites. Please keep talking.

I want to hear you say something here, too. But no name calling. Okay?

And if you want to hear us say something live, with Ayelet Waldman on Monday, May 11th, Noon EST, pop in here and watch.
Sign up below and we'll remind you that day, and send you the first chapter of Bad Mother immediately, so you can join the conversation. I can't wait to hear.

That's a Wrap

2009-03-25T10:30:00.003-04:00

Come see us on Peterman's Eye tomorrow, March 26. Do it. And say hello when you get there.

The Lark (trailer)

The Painting that Started it All

The Pitch

The Plot Thickens

The Nitty Gritty of Producing a Film

The Larks:

Lark 1

Lark 2

Lark 3

Lark 4

Public Apologies

And More Public Apologies

Save The Date

The Premiere

The Film

Have Struck Land

2009-03-22T22:47:00.001-04:00

Today, I ordered a landline. Tomorrow, by 10 in the AM, Eastern Standard Time, I will hear the sweet music of an audible BRRRINNNNNNNGGGG throughout the ENTIRE house. I am giddy. For some reason, I have attached all sorts of romantic nostalgia to having a REAL phone in the house. It’s like it’s Christmas, but the 1950’s version. I can already see myself standing in the kitchen, phone pressed between ear and shoulder, wiping flour from hands on red pintucked apron, half bent in laughter at friend Suzy or Jane or Rita's incredibly witty joke, Golden Retriever passing through, rubbing against me and getting half tangled in the cord as I lovingly extricate him. And then I remember—I don't have a dog. And I don't have a Suzy or a Jane or a Rita, witty or otherwise. And I don't have an apron, pintucked or otherwise. And I don't rightly know what pintucked means or if it's even available in red apron-wear. And, perhaps most importantly, I don't have a phone with one of those cord thingies. And do they even make those anymore? And why in God’s Green Earth am I working so hard at moving backwards in technology when it's doing nothing but make me yearn for smelly dogs and flour-covered aprons that are tucked with pins?

Well, I think it's this. It's not that cell phones don't rock, because they do. But they, well, CHANGE the home-time dynamic. Don't they? A landline in the house means no more tearing through the house and (that's only if you actually hear the thing) digging around in a Texas-sized purse for a muffled Justin Timberlake ring tone. Ever flipped open your phone to "Bringing Sexy Back," only to hear your mom's voice saying "Hi, Honey" an instant later? I wouldn't recommend it. Also, what about the lost art of intercepting calls intended for other household members and keeping them on the line way past the appropriate welcome and greetings by telling them about how much you paid for gas that day as compared to the day before that, and the week before that, and the year before that, until they have a veritable spreadsheet of gas prices embedded in their brain. C’mon. Those are good times.

The weirdest thing is, when I ordered the line, the guy didn't try to upgrade or sell me ANY extras. He asked if that was all, a bit incredulously, and then got me the hell off the phone as soon as possible. Young punk. And then it hit me. I'm that guy who takes the fifty-year-old pipe fitting into a hardware store and gets handed the one dusty replacement relic they have in the back along with a sour look and a "Don't worry about it; we can't charge you for it cuz it's not even in the computer, Pops." I'm him. That's me.

And that’s okay. Hey, does anyone remember how to make your own phone ring? You know, how you punch in a few digits and then hang up and then it rings? Remember that? Will be doing that A LOT tomorrow. Who wouldn't love a landline? Who?

Maybe next week, I can order a very cool number. Will have to call the young punk back and see if I can get myself something more along the lines of "Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand." And then maybe I can sign up for service with these girls and not have to talk to the young punk ever again.

Here Is Where We Meet

2009-03-20T01:49:00.003-04:00

This is 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 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

Twitter Current Theory™

2009-03-17T01:21:00.029-04:00

(Brace yourselves, people. This is a long one. But stay with me.)

I talk about running a lot on this site. I think I do so because it's a huge part of who I am. Many things in our lives begin with a single choice of action. In this case, it all started with one stride. I remember that stride clearly. I was nineteen and frustrated with too much thought and too little action. And that stride, though wholly unrelated to all the plans in my head, was an action. And I've never stopped. I think of how different my life would be now had I never stepped onto the road that day. I think about the miles I've covered, all over the world. I run wherever I go. It's often how I introduce myself to a new place. I unpack my suitcase, put on my shoes, step out of the hotel, look both ways, and just start going wherever my feet lead me. It's taught me so much. Endurance. Distinguishing which pain you should push through and which pain means you should stop. It's taught me when it's safe to wander off and when it's time to stay on the beaten path. But mostly, it's taught me that action is the only conduit for thought. Before I ran, I had perfect theories, all trapped in my head. Running taught me that an unsuccessfully applied theory that has moving legs under it can become anything, including more successful than you ever imagined, if you just keep it moving forward.

And now, much to my surprise, I'm talking about Twitter the same way. I was tempted to replace the word "Twitter" with the more inclusive "Social Media." But I can't bring myself to do it. Why? Because it's not true for me. No other form of social media has had agency in my life like Twitter. It's such a funny word, isn't it? Twitter. Say it with me. Twitter. And I can assure you that a cynic like myself has not missed the irony of speaking about such a silly word in such grandiose, romanticized language. But it's genuine—I can assure you. Doubting Thomas becomes a believer.

Twitter is linear. And therefore, like running, it encourages forward motion. Nay, it insists upon forward motion. No loitering allowed. Grab your hat and hold on tight. No time for 'but what if' or 'let me just think about this for awhile.' And that dynamic is excellent for training yourself to be decisive. Shoot from your hip. Make a mistake, post something stupid (not that I ever have), it's gone before you can come to a full blush. Ironically, the fast pace forward makes the present moment, the right here, right now become very vivid and powerful.

Sometimes in order to understand an intangible, I close my eyes, think about that thing, and watch to see which familiar images come to my mind. With Twitter, I think of a fast current. A river driving hard and deep. But you have to jump in fully for it to do its magic. You have to engage. And let's face it, engaging means leaving Doubting Thomas behind. It means making yourself vulnerable to rejection. Chris Reed, of the phenomenal team at Talent Revolution boldly says, it means "doing any number of other things that actually require signing in and proclaiming your existence." Or as John Haydon bravely says on his (professional) site, "Let’s be honest, we all have some fear about opening up and being ourselves - especially when we’re going through an emotional shitstorm. Like I just did. . . But this is who I am." Provocative? I think so. It's such a rush to finally say, this is who I am. Take me or leave me. Say that out loud just once. Take me or leave me. I guarantee your shoulders will raise a full inch. You'll sit up straighter. Chin raised.

As with running, I clearly remember standing at the edge of the Twitter stream, feeling the pull of the current, and somehow intuiting that it would soon take me on a wild ride, forcing me to spend less time reflecting and more time just getting myself moving and "out there." My very first tweet: "Have just thrown all my balls into the air." I typed the words, and pressed the button: Update. @Ev, if you're reading this, I think you should change the button to read: Engage.

Lately all I read about social media tries to privilege one site over another. It's taken on its own partisanship. An us versus them. But I wonder why? This IS social media, people. I assume it derives its name from its human element. So why in God's green earth would we assume that one site fits all? People are, dare I say it, different. And I personally love that these sites have become weeders, filters of sorts, that funnel like-minded people with common goals into places where they can more efficiently communicate and achieve said goals. I am at a point in my life where I want fast and furious forward movement. It's not that I dislike Facebook, connecting with people from my past, or finding random pictures of myself from high school being passed around (thanks for that, btw). It's just that I'm not "there" right now. I have too much more road to cover before I sit back and reflect. My rocking chair will wait—my dreams will not.

Charlie Wollborg, Chief Troublemaker of Curve Detroit@CharlieCurve, a very savvy dude on Twitter, said it best, "Facebook reconnects your past. Linkedin connects you to your present. Twitter connects you with your future."

I dig that breakdown. And though I can't speak for him, I'm comfortable with the fact that different people choose to "be" in different places, at different times, for different reasons. That's fine. And I genuinely hope they allow me the same choices.

I've been on Twitter, as what I call a full-timer, for two months. When people ask me what Twitter is, I say it's a driving pulse of people who are game. People who wake up every morning and say, BRING IT. People who not only get what I mean when I say I'm an "expert at shenanigans," but are pushing me hard toward making it a paid gig. It's the feeling you get at the end of a hard race, where complete strangers are running beside you and cheering you on—but it's constant. It's thousands of 140-character injections of powerful endorphins.

I've been noticing lately how many people on Twitter are endurance athletes, dancers, skiiers, hikers. Especially runners. All people who like to move—and quickly. And when you get us all together (grin spreading across my face as I type), look out, world. Cuz we're bringing it.

The more you engage on Twitter, the further down the bank you wade, the faster and more powerful the current gets. And I have a Twitter Current Theory™, that somehow it takes you where you're supposed to be, and to those with whom, in all this wide world, you share unnervingly common ground.

Just look at who I get to begin and end each day with. Each post alone may not seem like enough to cause the power of movement I've described above, but put them together and let them wash over you daily, again and again, and they'll carry you away to places you've only been thinking about going, for way too long. Jump in. Engage. And we'll catch you. I promise.

JPeterman If you haven't stayed in touch with your dreams, the good news is that it's never too late to reclaim them.

fleurdeleigh Chasing my to-do list around the house with a lasso. It's mine!

unmarketing I have met more incredible, caring and smart ppl on Twitter, than all other online/offline places combined.

SarahRobinson Good morning everyone! Bizy day corralling this maverick life I lead - yikes! Hope you all are setting your intentions for a GREAT one.:)

RedHotCopy (to) @marieforleo You rock, Marie! Was getting overwhelmed & remembered what u taught me bout living in the moment. Ahhhh. #tweepletuesday

mistressmia (to) @redhotcopy you have inspired some mistress mia mischief. can't wait to tell you all about it.

shannonpaul Tomorrow afternoon I'm crashing the New Media Bootcamp in Austin. Let's see if @justinlevy and @chrisbrogan try to stop me. ;-)

balemar (to) @missive Dude, I'm so pumped! :)

MelindaLouise never grew out of the "so excited I can't sit still" phase.

marieforleo (to) @SarahRobinson @MissIve Hey Ladies! Do I need to get in here & start spankin?? Shenanigans r 100% necessary for biz success :)

sandygrason Stop. Breathe. Reconnect. Ask: "What 1 thing can I do today that will have the greatest impact on my life/business?" Go do it.

michelle7814 (to) @MissIve Advice: Go to bed. Set alarm for 4 am and walk straight to dining room with Sharpie. Do not brush teeth. Do not Twitter. It works.

riasharon Hey, that's my strategy!!! :) RT @sethsimonds Don't be afraid to tell somebody you love them if you really do...

And my very favorite Tweet of all time . . . because it gets right to the heart of can do and decisiveness.

c_reed (to) @MissIve Yes.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2009-03-12T23:45:00.006-04:00

(originally posted July 2008)

I'm 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'm 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. Remember doing that?

Then we pull up to a stoplight 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 left turn, in the opposite direction of her appointment.

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: I'm not taking you to your appointment until your feet are bare and hanging out that window.
(I hit the power button and roll her window all the way down.)
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 point out the 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 scathing look of death.

And then she smiles. And then we laugh.

Me: Remember that feeling?
Mom: Vaguely. (looking at me) 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 our 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.

Dumpster Diving

2009-02-25T00:00:00.004-05:00

flashback

I'm about 10. My two sisters and I have just finished helping my parents set up the tent, which means we're free to take the bikes off the rack and "stake out the territory." First stop, all bodies of water in the vicinity. Next stop, the camp store.

I spotted it near the back, leaning against the campfire pie molds. A child's bamboo fishing pole, complete with plastic bobber and fish gutter. No reel. Just a put-it-together-and-drop-in-the-creek sort of a pole. Three dollars and sixty cents, which was exactly three dollars and sixty cents more than I had.

On the bike ride back to the site, I plotted. Then I pitched. (Not the tent. That was already up, remember?)

Me: I found something I want at the camp store.
Dad: What is it?
Me: A fishing pole.
Dad: You can use mine.
Me: No. I want my own.
Dad: Need some money?
Me: No. Mind if I go for a bit?
Dad: That's fine. Can you be back in two hours?
Me: (Running the numbers. Thirty-six cans divided my three girls, only one of whom is wholly invested in seeing the stunt through.) Yes.
Dad: Go ahead.

Then I had to pitch it to my sisters. Lilu was almost thirteen (tricky). Jaime Lynn, almost eight (Like shooting fish in a barrel).

Me: (to Lilu) Wanna?
Her: (brushing hair or something of the kind) No.
Me: Did you see the guy working the counter at the camp store?
Her: (putting down brush) Yeah.
Me: It involves two trips to the camp store. And you can hand him the bottles. Some of them beer. You'll look way old.
Her: (dropping brush and hopping on bike) Coming?

Me: (to Jaime Lynn) Wanna?
Her: Yep.

(Cutting to the retelling, from my father's POV, the next day, and for years to come.)

Dad: Her mother and I were driving back into the campground and approaching the row of dumpsters. We saw a bike leaned up against the side of one of them, and two children hoisting another one over the edge, until everything disappeared but her flailing feet. Then her mother said to me, "What kind of parents . . . ?"
And that's all she got out of her mouth before she realized WE were the parents in question.

(Back at the campsite, slightly mussed and certainly not smelling my best, I prepared for my defense.)

Dad: Mind explaining?
Me: (unloading bag as I spoke—I've found that spectacle always helps the defense) I have exactly 36. In less than an hour and a half.
Dad: You climbed into dumpsters.
Me: Yes. Yes I did. But time was an obstacle. And you said less than two hours. But you never said NO dumpsters. So I erred on the side of efficiency.
Dad: (grinning)

Upon examining the cans closer, I realized that 24 of the cans were from Canada. No refund. I still remember how it hurt my pride to take that money. But the coffee grounds on my outstretched arm consoled me. I'd earned it.

I caught a bluegill about an hour later. On my very own rod. It's a bummer that I didn't know how to get it off the hook, though. Poor thing made the whole ride back to my site with me, still on the hook. And he was scrappy, like me.

And the Winners Are . . .

2009-02-22T21:52:00.007-05:00

I know it's no Oscar, but I really want to thank everyone who played "Where's Miss Ive" over the weekend, and award them their bucket of M&M's. It made my adventure that much more fun, if you can imagine anything better than standing on a frozen lake, staring down a snowstorm. Perfect. I highly recommend a little head freeze for clearing the brain.

Two people, both from Peterman's Eye, guessed correctly.

I was in Petoskey. Or as I like to say, Peeeeeeetoskey.

Technically, Rings90 (also a Lark from the Chicago trip) guessed it first. But since, as I told her, I hadn't left my driveway yet, and her answer came in the form a of a list of all the cities in this hemisphere that had ever hosted Hemingway, her win is still being scrutinized by Miss Ive's board of scrutinizers. (We've got one eye on you, Rings.)

And then there's House Guest, also a fellow poster at Peterman's Eye. Though not very frequently, always amusingly and with my favorite form of whimsy. If you have a second, you must click the link and read some of his musings. And what makes his guess even better is that he sent it to me via, Stoney, the poster of all posters at The Eye. And he later scolded Sir Stoney, for adding a question mark to his one-word email. Apparently, he did not approve of the hesitation. Still giggling over that.

Also, the very shrewd J. Free, a regular reader, spotted the pic I sent out of my room, and guessed The Perry, as she knows me too well.

So now you all have to email me with two pieces of information if you want to collect your prize:

Address.
Favorite flavor of M&M's (Feel free to get fancy and demand Peanut Butter or even the seasonal Raspberry.)

Forgive my uncharacteristically prosaic post, sans mania. I believe my brain is still frozen.

Where's Miss Ive?

2009-02-18T22:26:00.007-05:00

I know. Not quite as catchy as Where's Waldo, but Emerson is boring. And I'm not.

Okay, maybe he's not, either.

This morning, I'm packing the truck. Dropping boys at Papa's. Heading north into Hemingway Country. Finding first ridiculously-sized snowbank. Snowplowing into it. Lugging out snowshoes. And getting some real air into my head.

Will send a random twitpic via Twitter, so you'll all know I'm alive. If you're not on Twitter, you can still see my Tweets to the right of this page, and the links to the pics will be in them.

But here's the rub, I'll be watching the Stop the Silence page from my phone, held with frostbitten fingers. Every time the gap closes, I send a pic. So donate some money, people. You know how slack I am to take up a cause. This means something to me. And I'll thank you with ridiculous pictures of myself on yet another lark. So do it. Gawd, I'm bossy.

The first person to reach me in the virtual void and guesses my destination city, wins a bucket of M&M's. Possibly hand-delivered. All depends on the shape of the vehicle, post snowplow ramming. Name the exact location of any pic, win two buckets. Sisters, you can't play. You already know my best hiding spots.

See ya on the other side of the moon.

My road trip music:

J

My Serve

2009-02-10T00:00:00.002-05:00

(My post on Peterman's Eye, in response to the topic of whether or not parents should, or do, push sports too much on their children)

Nothing changed my life or taught me as much as tennis. Nothing. Not school. Honestly, not even church. I was a skinny dreamer who sat in trees reading books. I was awkward and shy. And then I found a racquet one day when I was bored, my thirteenth summer. And then I found a ball. And then I introduced them to the garage door about 1000 times that day. And then I fell in love with it.

When you stand by yourself on a court and take 200 consecutive serves and only nail two aces, you learn how integral failure is to success. The two aces wouldn't have happened without the 198 that went out or caught the net. Period. And books don't teach you that. And NOTHING in this world feels better than those aces. And without the failures, they wouldn't feel that good. They're inseparable—failure and success. And pondering things doesn't teach you that. And just think of how liberating that is concerning a child's fear to fail, if they learn early that it's a necessary component of an ace.

I imagine this is true of practicing anything physical. Music. Dance.

(and here's where I apply this theory to sports and kids—stay with me)

Some parents don't care enough. They don't go to the matches. Don't ask if you made the team.

Maybe their serves never quite make it over the net.

Some parents care a little too much. Maybe their heart's in the right spot. Maybe it's not.

Maybe their serves are always a little too long.

My tennis coach used to spit in my face when screaming at me between sets. When I made it to states and to the final round of the tournament, he screamed two inches from my face as the entire crowd looked on because I'd missed a volley after diving and landing on my chin. I passed out on his feet.

So maybe the chair umpire should have pulled him off the court a long time ago.

And now it's my serve. Now I'm the parent. My Number 8 heads into his second season of T-Ball in a few months. And the only thing I know how to do, the thing I learned from all my missed serves and all the missed serves of my parents and coaches, is to keep hitting the balls and aim for the box.

With my sons, I imagine they are a new sailboat. Yare, but green. And so I keep them in the harbor protected from big winds, with my hand guiding their rudder. And I like this because the key is that I am behind them, watching carefully to see how their unique shape handles in the water. I don't push. I don't tow them around by a rope. But I do steer. And it is my prayer for both of my sons, that someday when I guide them to the open water, a powerful wind will catch their sails, whatever, or whomever it may be. Just as long as they have passion, and a decent handle on their rudder, everything else will fall into place.

My lawn chair is ready.

And for those parents, like myself, who have difficulty harnessing their competitive spirit at their childrens' games, I highly recommend competing in the "best-snack-bringing-parent" competition. Otter pops, a cooler and scissors always bring home the gold.

Seriously. Just ask the other team moms whose arses I took DOWN last year! Sorry. It's just in me.

The Sound of Silence Stopping

2009-02-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

I know I took down my shingle a while back and posted my sabbatical notice. But I'm stepping back in to say something important today.

(squinting and tapping the mic)

I almost forgot how bright it is in here. I'm going to crank the volume on this thing today, so brace yourselves. It's important that you all hear this. We need noise. I'm not gonna be silly, either. I gave MissIve the day off.

A Very Good Man invited me to write about the 12for12K Challenge . Every month, for 12 months, they aim to raise $12K for a worthwhile charity. February is dedicated to Stop the Silence, a nonprofit that works with others toward the prevention and treatment of child sexual abuse.

So I sat for some time thinking about what it means to stop the silence. And I thought about the sounds of childhood, and what they should be. And I thought of my own life and how, though it eventually became, well, life, my childhood was idyllic in many ways.

I remember the sound of water running from the hose as I drank from it, the blades on my ice skates cutting across the frozen pond, the pounding army of feet running underground as I pressed my wet ear against the beach sand. Do you know that sound? While the cicadas buzz in the trees overhead and the gulls cry over the crashing waves? But my warmest memories are of stolen sleep in hidden corners of our home, and the sounds that made my eyelids heavy. Fires cracking in the fireplace, my father reading Paddle to the Sea, a Simon & Garfunkel album playing in the background. Now, I watch my sons sleep. And I remember how nice it felt to rest, unburdened by life.

But today, I'm thinking about the children whose memories are built on different sounds, and the horrible silence that follows.

I'm thinking of the children who are afraid of sleep, and the sounds that keep their tired eyelids open, well into the night. The terror that stirs from the squeak of a floorboard. And I'm thinking of all the other things that are stolen from them during those hours, like the sweetness of unburdened sleep.

And I want very badly to tell those children, even if they're grown now, that I wish I had been there to make a sound for them.

And that's why I'm writing today about 12for12K and Stop the Silence.

I know people always say we need to stop the silence. But if you press your ear to those words, you'll hear them say, We are not an idea—We are an action. My fingers, as they type this, stop the silence. One-key-at-a-time, making noise.

Please Make a Noise by Clicking Here right now. Give $10. An action. Not a thought. And DO NOT be deterred if you don't have a PayPal account. I MEAN IT. You've signed up for a Target and an Amazon account. You can push through. DO IT. An action. Not a thought.

It matters that you do. You'll know that you DID something because you'll hear a sound. A click. The Sound of Silence Stopping.

This is one of the sounds I remember drifting off to as a child, on the rug in front of the fire.

Listen to the words. Listen to the sound. Hear how one 'click' can Stop the Silence.

.

Proud Mama

2009-01-22T00:00:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-21T00:00:00.001-05:00

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 . . .

2009-01-19T00:00:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-13T00:00:00.002-05:00

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

2009-01-09T00:00:00.001-05:00

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

2009-01-08T00:00:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-07T00:00:00.002-05:00

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!

2009-01-05T00:00:00.000-05:00

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.

The 'Steve McQueen' of Handshakes

2008-12-29T12:34:00.001-05:00

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 . . .

Always better to leave this kind of impression:

Than this one:

Free Zoo for Snowday!

2008-12-19T00:00:00.000-05:00

Extra, extra!

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.

See ya'll over there.

The Workday Equivalent to the ‘Drunk-Dial’

2008-12-17T02:22:00.001-05:00

. . . 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?

Sasquatch Sightings

2008-12-15T00:00:00.001-05:00

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?

Gentlemen? Thoughts? Preferences? True sasquatch sightings?

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.

The Lark

2008-12-07T20:46:00.009-05:00

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.

Bastone and Commune Lounge of Royal Oak, MI for hosting one hellofa premiere.

Andrew Wright for movie poster design and for Photoshopping the hell out of Miss Ive.

All the cab drivers in Chi-town who let us pile six people and a camera in. And for answering all Jaime's personal questions.

The Chicago city worker who allowed Miss Ive to operate heavy artillery, almost losing his foot in the process.

The Lark Girls—my dear friends and fellow adventurers: Jaime, Becky, Kathy and Erika.

And, of course, our husbands, who stayed behind, changed diapers and held down the homesteads.

To all friends and readers, and to all of our new friends from Chicago, thanks for seeing us through all the antics that led to today.

Now, Miss Ive will be sleeping for the next week, so please leave comments very quietly. . .

The Lark—Premieres This Saturday

2008-11-30T15:14:00.007-05:00

Details and Directions

ONE MORE DAY! All of you who are traveling in from out-of-town, safe travels. Can't wait to see your mugs.

The Lark (trailer)

War-Oh-Man

2008-11-24T00:00:00.003-05:00

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.

C.K. Dexter Haven

2008-11-20T00:00:00.000-05:00

My favorite scene from one of my favorite movies of all time.

"Oh C.K. Dexter Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaven."

"Champagne is a great levelerrrr. Levlerrrr."

Brilliant, and sweet and terribly romantic, considering it's two men, talking about one woman.

Philadelphia Story. Go watch it. Fantastic.

Oh, and raise your hand if you think this chick should have run off with Stewart rather than Grant.

Miss Ive: Hand raised. He's more "yare," if you ask me. Also, if history books are correct, less likely to snort lines of coke. Just sayin'.

To Chop, Or Not To Chop

2008-11-19T00:00:00.000-05:00

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.

Here Is Where We Meet

2008-11-18T00:00:00.000-05:00

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

Date to Bloody Well Save

2008-11-14T00:00:00.005-05:00

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

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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.

What to wear? Why something like this, of course.

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. . .

Please Do Come. Puh-lease.

Funny Man with a Camera

2008-11-13T10:25:00.003-05:00

Seriously, doesn't this guy have a Seth Rogen thing going on? Well, he's our director. He really is. Honestly.

Why do I emphasize this? Because you would not believe how many dirty looks he got from elderly women of 'stature' who doubted that he was 'with us.'

They pulled his ear, stomped on his feet, swatted him with their crocodile purses, and all asked the same question:

"Young man," (said with lips pursed, in a low hiss) "do those young ladies KNOW that you are filming them?!"

And no matter what he said, and no matter how much WE assured them, they gave him 'THE LOOK.'

Luckily, true to any director worth his salt, he just didn't give a crap.

Good times.

Missing Pieces

2008-11-12T00:00:00.003-05:00

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.

Another Apology

2008-11-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

This one is short and sweet, and certainly the one that makes me look ten shades of awful.

To the police officer (dressed in plain clothes, mind you) standing in front of our hotel,

I apologize for mistaking you for the doorman, tossing you my wrap, and commandeering your iPhone to place a call.

My sister and the director of our film, who saw the whole thing, took me to task, if it makes you feel any better.

Director: Where were you raised that you think any man standing in front of a building is a doorman?

Sister: Especially a man packing a nine millimeter?

Me: I did NOT.

Them: YOU DID.

Me: What did he do?

Them: Just grinned at you.

Me: Oh. Good.

Very sorry. Very, very sorry. Very rude girl. And thank you for the minutes. And the sense of humor.

A Requisite Litany of Apologies

2008-11-10T00:00:00.000-05:00

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.

The Larks: 4

2008-11-07T00:00:00.000-05:00

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.

But, also for the record, her agent lies. A lot.

Remember this?

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.

What more could one possibly ask for?

Chicago, brace yourself.

The Larks: 3

2008-11-06T00:00:00.001-05:00

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.

However, we first reunited after exchanging letters over the summer, when she read about my hair-brained stunts to save the zoo. Remember?

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?

The Larks: 2

2008-11-05T00:00:00.001-05:00

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.

The Larks: 1

2008-11-04T00:00:00.001-05:00

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.

Fantastic, right?

Undecided

2008-11-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

I never talk about politics on this blog. It's not because I do not care about them. It's not because I'm apathetic. It's the opposite, really. It's because I'm overwhelmed, generally, by the subject.

It's also because I have been cursed with a horrible case of empathy. I can almost always see the 'other side' of every argument. It's crippling. It's easy for me not to judge. But it can be difficult to make a decision.

I'll be honest. I've voted for the same party in every election since I turned 18. I genuinely felt strongly that I always would. I had completely internalized one party's ideology. Don't we all do that these days? WE ARE OUR PARTY. We don't vote for a candidate anymore. We vote for a life philosophy.

And then I had a random telephone call Friday, around noon, with a good friend who has always voted for the 'other party.' And we are good friends because we never judge each other.

But he said something that made me rethink how I vote. And it shocked me. So much that I barely said two words throughout the course of the phone call and for the rest of that day. He wasn't trying to persuade me. He was just expressing a deep sadness over the state of the election and casually stated something I've heard the 'other side' say millions of times. But he said if differently. And I had what some (Oprah) may call an 'Ah Hah' moment.

I'm impressed with myself for being capable of changing my mind. It makes me feel malleable and green. It makes me feel like I haven't packed it up and called it quits, intellectually.

And it makes me think I'll now get even less sleep tonight than I had planned.

Sincerely,

Miss Undecided

Kiddy Contraband

2008-10-31T00:00:00.000-04:00

My first-grade son brought me an envelope last night from his backpack.

Me: What's this?
Him: I think it's from the teacher. It was in my locker at the end of the day.

It was a white no. 10 envelope with three stamps in the upper-right corner and my son's name (misspelled W-i-l-y-m) scribbled in blue crayoned letters, graduating in size from left to right.

Me: Really? Since when does Mrs. S use blue crayon and penmanship that indicates either underdeveloped fine-motor skills or something other than coffee in her thermos?
Him: Huh?

There was a blue "?" on the back. Hmmmmmmmm. . .

Inside: a tightly folded piece of stationary. On the front, a picture of a beautiful princess with uber-long hair and hearts for eyes, drawn in blue ink. Now, may I just pause here to say that I DO have to commend this pint-sized seductress for changing writing utensils for a bold look on the envelope, and one of higher precision on the letter itself. A practice I myself use. Oh, she's good.

On the back side, I found this:

"I (very large colored-in heart) you Wilym
I am your itmyyrwr (am guessing 'admirer,' and, again, not bad for a first grader)
I am in your clais room"

After I took a moment to let what I was reading sink in, I found myself saying two things simultaneously.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . .

and

Who in the hell is this tramp?

Unfortunately for her, it was the latter emotion that prevailed. So tomorrow girls, when I show up with my little Darth Vader at the early-morning classroom lineup, I'll be looking over all of you very carefully. And I'll ferret you out. Because moms know.

Just you try to hide behind this:

Or, God forbid, this:

And just so you know, I'll be the one who looks like this:

Son: Is it from Mrs. S, mommy?
Me: Yes, dear, it is.
Son: What did she say?
Me: That you should live with your mother forever and little girls are not to be trusted.
Son: Oh. Yeah. I already knew that.
Me: Smart boy.

Bad Mother

2008-10-30T00:00:00.005-04:00

That's the title of Ayelet Waldman's book, coming out this May. Remember when I teased you with it? It's really so cool to even have it. I keep ogling it. The top of the front cover reads: Bound Manuscript—Not For Sale. As in, nobody else has a copy yet. As in, I am privy. As in, the heady scent of power has gone to my head and I have forgotten what I was going to say.

Oh, yes.

The full title:

Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace

Though Ayelet (pronounced I-yell-it, which makes her even cooler, and probably louder, than I had imagined), has given me free reign to say whatever and tell whatever I want about her book, I prefer the teasers. I also want to hear what you think.

In her first chapter she sets up two of our cultural signifiers: Good Mothers and Bad Mothers. Basically, Good Mother equals complete self-sacrifice. Bad Mother equals selfishness (per our cultural discourse—not per Waldman, just to be clear).

And then she recaps our cultural obsession with Bad Mothers. The heinous Bad Mothers like Andrea Yates who drowned her five children in Texas. Or Susan Smith who drove her two children into a lake in South Carolina. She talks about the discourse used to describe their crimes. That rather than treat them as anomalous cases or speak of their specific mental issues, we (mostly other women/mothers) talk about their base selfishness.

And then she asks why we obsess about them and why we talk about that selfishness in such a bloodthirsty manner—that 'Bad Mothering.'

She posits that it is because on our turf and in our own lives, we battle these guilty feelings of regret over selflessness or guilty feelings of not enough selflessness. Either way, moms are damned. Either way, 'mom guilt' is lethal and toxic (my own thoughts).

And therefore she wonders if, even if only for a moment, some of that guilty burden isn't assuaged by watching (lambasting) someone who is "worse, far worse, than we are."

And I buy it. Wholeheartedly. It's spectacle. The old art of spectacle. I often think of the Paris Hilton craze in the same way. She's not that interesting. Why the obsession? Could it be because she has become the poster child of the dangers of having too much money? And therefore does she make all of us living in mediocrity and even poverty feel okay about our status? Even though there are thousands of rich kids doing just fine, living responsibly, we have made her the rich kid poster child. Spectacle. Better than anti-depressants any day of the week. Definitely better than self-reflection, God forbid.

But I am always suspicious of witch hunts. I always smell the stench of repression on the hunters.

I don't believe that Waldman writes to vindicate the wrongs of the above mentioned heinous crimes. I believe her only question is, What can we learn about ourselves, as a culture, as mothers, by our own reactions to them? By how we talk about them?

What thinkin'?

A Plug for Child Labor

2008-10-28T00:00:00.001-04:00

Conversation between my seven-year-old son and myself, regarding my three-year-old son.

Will: Mommy, Max didn't put away his toys, and I did. (A sentiment I'd heard about 72 times already that day—in one form or another.)

Me: Sit down, please. Let's talk.

Will: Why?

Me: Right here, on the couch. And bring a pencil and paper. And a recent copy of your resume.

Will: What?
(Both sitting now)

Me: Am I to understand from your concern over his behavior that you are interested in the position of becoming his manager?

Will: (grinning) Yes. Yes, I am.

Me: Fantastic. How do your nights and weekends look for the next 15 years?

Will: Huh?

Me: Still interested?

Will: Can I just go play?

Me: I highly recommend it.

BlackBall BlackFinn

2008-10-27T00:00:00.006-04:00

This is the new bar in Royal Oak. Brand new. Though if you go to their site, you'll see that they are building their reputation around their "Tradition, Tradition, Tradition." And I asked myself, "Exactly what sort of tradition are they building on, considering they're so new to our town and only around since 1994 at their first location?"

But if you read the news, you'll see what they apparently mean by "Tradition."

Not wanting to jump to conclusions, I made the rounds myself and talked to the staff at local venues. The stories are unbelievable, offered in great detail, and consistent. That's hard evidence to refute. Stories of hordes of BlackFinn employees making the rounds to other bars, causing big scenes, buying drinks for customers, and then telling them to come over to BlackFinn. It's also been carried off in such an organized and methodical manner that it's hard to refute that the impetus came from upper ranks.

Trust me, I was in the service industry. As a 'people,' mass organization is not at the top of our skill sets. If we do anything as a group, there's bound to be a manager behind it. And even then, we barely listen. Really. Any Food and Beverage manager reading this right now is no doubt giving me an Amen, sister. I have no doubt their actions were planned and probably motivated with the incentive that works best on servers (again, much experience here): free booze and less closing sidework. We're very easily bought and sold. As a people, that is.

Their behavior is sad, really. It's like they're the new girl in school trying to sleep their way to the top. Dontcha know what you're doing to your reputation? Dontcha? For God's sake, pull yourself together and have an ounce of respect.

It's not that we're afraid of a fair fight here in Royal Oak. And it's definitely not because we shy away from the 'creative.' Though you can see from my post title, my first instinct was to call for a plain old blackball. But that's boring.

I've changed my mind. I think we should show BlackFinn just how creative we can be. They have announced themselves to the neighborhood by showing just how little respect they have for their reputation. Let's be neighborly. Let's show them that we've heard them. And, let's all stop by to pay our respects.

But just to be clear, they've asked that they not be the aperitif like you might have at Pronto. They've also denied that they're anywhere near good enough for the house-brewed beer you'll enjoy at Bastone. And they'd rather die than be treated with the respect you'd offer the single malt at Goodnite Gracie's. They've actually made it quite clear that they're even beneath a good old-fashioned night cap at Tom's.

Let's be sure that we go to them as they've come to us. Shall we?

And don't worry about flushing the toilet. Or cleaning up your mess. They wouldn't hear of it.

Oh, I almost forgot. Order a water on your way out the door. They love that.

Please feel free to post a note to BlackFinn here. I will be emailing them the link at the end of the day, once we've all had our say.

Scrappy Friday

2008-10-24T00:00:00.002-04:00

Don't judge. I love this song.

It's such a Friday song, too. Right?

Play it lots and know that Miss Ive is partaking in her favorite Friday activity: Duking it out with the designers who like to bust her chops all week.

Can you see me warming up now? Running up and down my office walls?

Na na na na na na na, Na na na na na na . . .

I'm gonna start a fight.

My Hot Little Hands

2008-10-23T00:00:00.001-04:00

Remember when I posted about Ayelet Waldman and her much talked about New York Times essay about sexually repressed mothers? (No matter how I describe her essay, I greatly reduce it to one flattened-out theme. It's much more. Read it. You'll see.) Well, she wrote. And, I wrote back. And we went back and forth enough times that I felt bold enough to mention our girls' trip—our adventurers' renaissance. I told her we were filming and asked if she would like to be present, in any form. A note, a letter, a word of advice for rookie moms. And guess what she did? GUESS? She mailed me the manuscript to her new book, not out until this May.

I have been racing home every night, running straight to the mail box. And tonight, it came.

This post will be short and sweet, as I have already cracked it (it really made that crackling sound, really) and turned randomly to page 17. And the very first three sentences on the page knocked me out. Am so excited. I'm dying to share, but have to get the green light from the venerable author.

Feel very privileged to have her trust. Would not want to break it. After all, have to keep some secrets for May. Will check in and report back. Hate to tease. Not really. Love it.

Can't even give away the title yet. And it's very bold, like Ms. Waldman.

Hmmmmmmmmm. . .

Distant Dreamer

2008-10-22T00:00:00.000-04:00

Okay. . .

Remember my big adventure? And remember how I'm filming it? And remember how I have no idea what the feck is involved with making a short film? Well it turns out, after much discussion with both the director and the producer who are both well versed in legal copyright issues, music is a taboo unless I have paid for the rights.

A transcript from my three most recent phone conferences with producer:

Me: I was hoping we could use something from Modest Mouse on the road trip portion.
Alex: Nope

Me: Maybe we could SING the WORDS to a Billy Joel song on the run through the park.
Alex: Nope

Me: I'm picturing a scene where my sister and I are sharing the ear buds from an iPod and MOUTHING the lyrics to a U2 song.
Alex: (For a very important producer, he doesn't have very impressive phone service. I believe the call was dropped, as I did not get a response.)

So I have to BUY music, MAKE my own music, or BEG for free rights to music.

I only have enough in my budget to purchase a fourth-grade version of Hot Cross Buns, performed on recorders. And I can't sing or play my way out of a bad karaoke joint. Soooooo. . . begging it is. And I NEED help. Please do this. If you have any respect for clean air and would like to keep it free of my own recorder playing, please do this.

Step One:

Listen

The director found this song whilst dusting off his only 'chick' CD to inspire him while story-boarding this film. He made me hear it. "It's perfect for your project. PERFECT." And it is. I was skeptical, as I believe all men think that 'inspirational chick music' sounds the same. But this is perfect.

I have to have it.

Step Two:

Click here. It will take you to Duffy's site 'contact' page.

Then cut and paste from below to fill in fields.

Name: (your own name)

Subject: PR enquires

Email Address: sandinmyswimsuit@gmail.com

Message:

I am writing on behalf of Miss Ive's short film. She is the craziest girl I know and certainly a 'Distant Dreamer,' as evidenced by the fact that she has written to everyone she knows around this world and has nicely requested (under threat of bodily harm) that we write to you. She would love nothing more than to grace her project with Duffy's song, Distant Dreamer. She believes it is possible you will say yes. Remember, she's a dreamer.

{Insert one-two sentences describing a crazy dream of your own} And, now, thanks to my crazy friend, Miss Ive, I am inspired to go do this. Blame her if you will, but please give her what she asks. She's insufferable when she does not get it.

With much gratitude,

(your name)

Okay. Now you know what to do. Do it. Then play this song again. If, at song's end, you DO NOT end up standing in your chair, hands in the air, you have no soul. It's that good.

Katsai

2008-10-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

Miss Ive has found a new favorite Etsy designer. And wanna know why? She uses TOILE in her designs. And wanna know why I like TOILE? Because it's so fun to say. Try it. Toile, Toile, TOILE. TOOOOO-WALLLLLLLLLL.

Check it.

And now check the TOILE.

And now check Katsai's site.

Love this one, too. It's got a handkerchief in a very handy spot, which is bloody perfect for weddings and funerals. However, I'm unsure whether this top is exactly appropriate for weddings and funerals. Will contemplate dilemma whilst purchasing recklessly. Come to think of it, handkerchief could be very useful on 'bill paying day,' as well. Shirt is definitely appropriate for that. Will buy several.

A Little Bit Harmful to Me

2008-10-20T00:00:00.001-04:00

I went to see Rufus Wainwright perform at the Royal Oak Music Theater Saturday night. Such a haunting voice. Half way through the concert, I realized my face was frozen in the "on the verge of tears" expression. He saved Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk for last. The crowd went crazy.

There's something about guilty pleasures that everyone can get on board with. Right?

It seems like such a light song, given the title. But this verse gets to me, on a much deeper level.

"And then there's those other things. . .which for several reasons we won't mention. . . everything about them is a little bit stranger. . . a little bit harder. . . a little bit deadly. . ."

I was reading Peterman's Eye yesterday about a woman who just celebrated her 112th birthday. The sentiment everyone expressed about her was that she loves the simple life. And, honestly, I had nothing to say other than, "how sad." So I said nothing. If after 112 years, the resounding sentiment of my life is "simplicity," I would die. No pun intended.

And it's not that I don't love the simple things, but they don't FEEL simple to me. They feel huge—and they overwhelm me. And when I feel that way and I look around and see everyone else enjoying things with banal smiles on their faces, it unnerves me. It makes me want to shake them and wake them up.

Nobody will ever say that I "enjoyed the simple life." They're more likely to say, "life was never simple when she was around." And maybe that's not a compliment. And I'm not likely to live to 112. But that's okay.

I like intensity. I like guilty pleasures, even "those other things. . .which for several reasons we won't mention. . ."

So, in the words of the haunting Rufus Wainwright,

"Please be kind if I'm a mess. . . Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk."

Play this song. And then tell me your two guiltiest pleasures. Don't make me come over and shake you out of your banality. Because I will.

The Great Debates

2008-10-16T23:21:00.021-04:00

Ahhhhh, the debates. It's all everyone is talking about these days. So I thought I'd just put things to a vote here, tally and be done with it.

We all know what's at the center of all the commotion.

The J. Peterman Portrait dress.

Remember this trip? Well it's coming up and major decisions must be decided upon.

So let's dig right in and start with the tougher issues. The shoes.

These (very Audrey Hepburn)

Or these (a little more grown up)

Don't let the blocks and blocks of Chicago walking deter you from voting heels. 'Fashion first' is our campaign slogan. Hence the J. Peterman benchmark.

On to the hose. There have been a few voices of concern over monochromania.

To break things up, some have suggested nude.

Or, my personal suggestion, to spice things up a bit,

Moving on, gloves. There are six of us dressing alike. We are going for the vintage chic thing. Like these chicks.

See their gloves?

Well, with black shoes and black dress, do you do black or white gloves?

This chick did white, and she looks pretty vintage.

But this chick did black, and she is the definition of vintage chic.

Moving on to the mouth. No. Let's do eyes first. Smoky or natural?

And, depending on what you voted for eyes, what for mouth? Vintage red or natural? I can tell right now, the former would wind up all over the place. But it's cool.

And finally, the toughest issue of all, the hair. I think up for sure (but you can vote down). But if up, high-fashion, modern pony or sloppy, side-parted chignon? Very tough.

These are the issues currently keeping me up at night. Please help Miss Ive get some rest. Vote. Otherwise, smoky eyes will be necessary to hide very, very, very tired eyes.

Oh my God, I forgot the clutch. Must start all over now.

Irish Fare

2008-10-16T00:00:00.001-04:00

I went to an Irish pub last night. Ordered the corned beef. Was actually really excited about it. Until every bite, with the exception of ONE, wound up BACK on my plate in a pile of gristle. So gross. How do people swallow that?

Anyway, I'm sure the group of people at the table facing mine enjoyed the show. Especially the faces I was making. At first, I tried to be discreet. Used the napkin. Pretended to cough. By the end, I was spitting it across the room, aiming for the kitchen.

When my waitress cleared my plate with the obligatory, "How was it?," I just nodded to the pile and smiled. Fantastic, I said. More please.

She brought me another Boddingtons. I didn't have to ask. Smart girl. And that IS fantastic. More, please.

And that pretty much summarizes the enigma of Ireland, Scotland and England. How is that they have enough taste to create such bloody good beer, yet none at all when it comes to food? Puzzling.

Shenanigans Revisited. . .

2008-10-15T00:00:00.001-04:00

My sister forwarded me some pics of our trip to the mountains earlier this year. Don't you love that? It brings it all back.
Warm weather. . . long hikes. . . bottomless wine glasses. . .Sushi squared. . . and, of course, shenanigans cubed.

No matter how old we get, we get into trouble when together.

Since we were little girls, our vacation days pretty much always looked like this for the first half:

And then, when we were good and tired and dirty, if we hadn't done enough real harm to be banished to the tent or the condo, we spent the second half like this:

All cleaned up. And, thanks to my father, we're thoroughly trained in the fine art of making this transformation in under 30 minutes. He took us to the coin showers in national parks where one quarter buys you 30 seconds of water, and gave us each two quarters—even when we were teenagers—seriously. And now we thank him.

This particular day ended very late. There was a moose sighting, a pretty hilarious "off the beaten path" bathroom break from which we now have a quote that will last a lifetime, tons of sushi and great wine (I vaguely recall that my Twitter feed that night read: Just sushied the hell out of that town), and a pub that served great beer and Guinness fudge torte covered in local wild huckleberries. One for the books.

But this particular shenanigan doesn't end there. No. It gets better.

The following morning, the sun seemed brightly cruel as I packed for the hour drive south to the airport. And could NOT FIND MY WALLET. Which meant I had zero ID with which to board the plane. Which meant I had left it under the table at the pub where I had landed after the Guinness chocolate cake and beer bath had taken me DOWN. Which meant YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FECKING KIDDING ME.

But this is the coolest part about a small mountain town. It's not Detroit. It was still there, full of cash and plastic. Stunning. The pub owner said, Now I know your birthday—checked your license. And I said, Yah... you just gave me my present. Trust me.

Made the flight. Just barely. Light still a bit too bright. Fantastic shenanigans.

Project Bossy

2008-10-14T00:00:00.002-04:00

I've written about her before. She's my very favorite blogger.

And she's just put a picture of me drinking beer 'on the job' at her site. And now I love her even more.

Read Bossy. See how bossy reading her will make you? Do it. But don't read with fluids in your mouth. Very dangerous to your machine.

If you want to see the picture of me (no doubt, YOUR very favorite blogger), check her Blog Roll on the lower right, and scroll about two-thirds of the way down. Bonus: click on my pic and it will bring you right back here! See how crafty that girl is? Witchy crafty.)

A Real Nancy Drew Mystery

2008-10-13T00:00:00.000-04:00

When I was 21, I worked at and lived in an historic inn near Lake Michigan. I loved the inn. It had a sweeping front porch, like this.

And it had two bikes for guests to check out and use, like this.

On my second day behind the VERY OLD front desk, I saw one of those bicycles crash into said sweeping porch, whilst transporting a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties, but cruised, crashed, and dismounted like she was roughly 10.

She was wearing paint-spattered coveralls and ran all the way up the front steps, across the sweeping porch and practically directly into the VERY OLD desk behind which I stood, staring at her with dumbfounded curiosity.

She signed the bike back in, grinned at me, turned, ran through the grand and VERY OLD lobby, up the first flight of VERY TINY and floral-carpet-covered stairs, and from the clammering heard overhead, apparently down the entire VERY LONG, second-floor hallway. And then a door slammed. A door that looked like this.

And required a key that looked like this.

Seriously.

So I spun the book log around and read the name. Nancy Drew was scribbled hurriedly across the last entry slot.

I grinned. How mysterious? So I climbed the stairs to investigate and I looked exactly like this.

Except I didn't have the auburn hair, or the cool magnifying glass, or the dapper, apparently asexual boyfriend named Ned to follow me around and take interest in my every whim for an entire series. But I did look inquisitive. And intrigued. And I looked. . . down the entire way due to the afore mentioned VERY TINY (and VERY OLD) FLORALLY-COVERED STEPS—a mystery unto themselves.

And when I reached the end of the second-floor hallway, I heard singing coming from the last guest room, and banging. I knew that the room was listed as vacant, as were all the rooms in the inn that day. So I knocked. And she answered, still grinning, and singing.

She held a paintbrush in her hand and as I looked further into the room, I saw that she had begun to paint a star on the wall behind the bed. I panicked. My first time left alone and in charge, and I'd let a crazy woman in to graffiti the century-old walls, all whilst masquerading as a teen master sleuth.

In an effort to keep you all from falling off the edge of your chairs so early in the workweek, I will jump to the end of the story.

Turns out it really was Nancy Drew. Nancy Swan Drew, the artist. And she had been hired to paint a guest room that would from then on be known as the 'Nancy Drew' room. And she is crazy, in all the good ways. And she has a magnificent spirit. And she has the heart of a ten-year-old and the wisdom of twenty ten-year-olds. And she taught me many things using sparse and sage words that summer. And I thank her and hope she is well.

Murphy's Law and Broken Furnaces

2008-10-10T00:00:00.003-04:00

A week ago, it was fall in Michigan. Real fall. Sweater weather. "I can see my breath at night" weather. And so the furnace broke on that day, of course.

When I heard the "bad news," I was prepared. Murphy, his Law, and I go way back. Way, way back. We chat often, like old schoolmates.

And this time, our chat went like this:

Me: Seriously?
Murph: You know it, honey. (For those of you who have not met Murphy or his Law, he generally stands askew, leaning against a doorjamb and blowing casually on his fingertips. )
Me: Fine. Give me the new furnace. Take my $2500. Take it.

Well, he did. The furnace was installed yesterday. Thursday. You know, that day that peaked at 78 degrees Fahrenheit? The one that, when paired with a gleaming new hotrod of a furnace in the basement, pretty much defines IRONY? Yeah, that one. Apparently, it's supposed to stay that way until after the weekend. UNTIL PAYDAY.

So I called my old friend Murphy.

Me: What's up?
Murph: Nothin'
Me: Wanna go for ride?
Murph: (Smacking his gum in my ear) You bet ya, babe.
Me: Good.

Have packed my shotgun. Might need some bail money tomorrow, girls. My bank account is a bit shy these days. Roughly $2500 shy.

Dancing Badly and Publicly

2008-10-09T00:00:00.001-04:00

My friend Becky is coming to Chicago in search of the Lark with me. We have also decided to film the trip. Why?

So we can show it here, of course, and so you all can see just how very cool we are. Planning for the trip involves several conversations in which the girls involved attempt to visualize exactly how this 'coolness' will play out.

Becky and I have spent a lot of time choreographing our dance moves. She is, hands down, the resident expert at the Elaine Dance. That intimidates me. So I've been trying to bring my game up a notch. Maybe some Eighties vintage moves? The sprinkler? The Roger Rabbit?

But Becky, being the fantastic friend that she is, has gone out of her way to reassure me that stellar dance moves are not necessary to achieve film stardom.

She posted this clip of Jennifer Aniston dancing off stage while watching John Mayer play.

And she was right. I do feel much better. Much, much better.

Not that I could ever love Aniston less for her ineptitude. Really. It only makes me love her more.

And to prove it, we'll be dining at her favorite Chicago restaurant after we find the painting. And maybe we'll drink enough wine to dance badly in her honor. Though, if you watch the clip, the restaurant will have to offer buckets-full-of-wine to achieve the same effect.

And on a similar note, as long as we're making fun of 'moves' and ex-Friends cast members, you all should know that my sister, who is also coming, will be doing her very best Phoebe 'run' when we hit the pavement Saturday morning.

If anyone would like to talk her out of it here and now, I encourage it. Watch the 'Aniston dancing' clip again. That should cure her.

Madmen

2008-10-07T10:29:00.002-04:00

Am sick today. Am being a very big baby about it, too. Have dressed myself in four wool sweaters and wool ski socks that cover my entire leg. If you don't own a pair of these, you should. Would provide you all with a shopping link, but am too sick and baby-like about it.

So just watch this. Cuz that's what I'll be watching—all day. Just started watching the series two nights ago and have already finished the first season. Love it. Am secretly hoping that Betty Draper will come to my home and make me soup. And iron my clothes, and clean my oven. . .

Many of you share my dark sense of humor, so you'll love this Madmen clip of incredibly un-PC moments from the 1960's.

Now back to bed.

Irregular Party Animal

2008-10-06T00:00:00.004-04:00

I'm sure you all remember the infamous Grace-T, my very saucy, one-year-old niece who put me on hat detail for her party. Well the party was Saturday. And, due to all the pressure and breathy phone calls, I was still scrambling and having a fairly full-blown panic attack on Friday, and still no head-topper in sight.

Before I left the office, I called an emergency strategy meeting with our two best designers and one hellofa good project manager. They all took the meeting very seriously, (see how seriously?)

until I mentioned that the meeting was to discuss designing a birthday hat for my niece's first birthday party. I found myself sitting alone in that very same board room almost immediately after that tiny detail was revealed. Perhaps it's because they weren't invited to the party. I'm sure that's what it was.

I was left on my own with very rudimentary tools.

So I decided to bring in the heavy artillery.

Now, had the other professionals hung around, I'm sure they could have warned me that mixing scissors, one VERY hot glue gun and wine is not necessarily recommended. Thankfully, after a quick stop here,

I was sufficiently briefed on the hazards of such combinations.

And after I learned to work WITH the bandages rather than AGAINST them, I produced this.

And after the very-nice-physician-prescribed painkillers set in, plus a little more wine, my real creative "self" began to flourish. My fear of one particularly feisty one-year-old began to subside, and I worked like fluid feng shui—improvisation flying all around. I was the Charlie Parker of birthday-hat decorating.

First I tried this.

Then I saw this.

Yep. Totally fluid, right?

And it didn't stop there. Oh, no. I was on a roll.

And so was the blue paper. I DO have a photo of what eventually became of the dining room walls, but have decided you can probably imagine how that one would look. No need to over-illustrate my point. Or embarrass myself needlessly.

We'll just fast forward to the next day. See how well the hat went over? See the scrunched Gracie mug? See the look of "just keep it on for one more photo and please don't scream or my upper lip will bead with sweat" on her mother's face?

Well, let's just say that there's one more photo I won't be showing here, in the effort to not embarrass myself needlessly, one more time. Let's just say someone was not very happy with her auntie.

And let's just say that picture might involve one tiny birthday girl giving me "the look" and pointing in the direction of the corner, where, apparently, she had made me a hat of my very own.

So thoughtful.

Thankfully, Miss Ive always has a Plan B, especially when infants are involved, and she intentionally created the hat topper from a baby hair clip. Miss Gracie was quite pleased with this particular improvisation. And so Miss Ive was allowed to rejoin the rest of the party.

But no cake.

Miss Grace was in no mood to share her cake.

Maybe next year.

A Room In Bloom

2008-10-03T08:17:00.012-04:00

Remember paint paralysis?

Cured. Thanks so much for all your great color input. Settled on a calming tea green.It matches her apron in the portrait. And it soooooothes me.

My mother painted this for me. So apparently, since you all voted on the color, and she actually painted it, I may still be suffering from Paint Paralysis and not even know it. That's okay. The point is, it's painted.

And I LOVE IT. And so does our lark girl in the portrait. She told me so. It's possible that the paint fumes are getting to me, but she really does talk to me.

Sometimes she sits next to my bed and tells me stories.

And sometimes we share some wine.

And then afterward, she looks a little more blurry. Like this.

But wherever she is, she makes me happy. Like this.

Thank you all for pitching in. Thank you, mom. Love it.

Have begun my countdown to our pilgrimage to the real portrait. Can NOT wait.

Dressing the Part

2008-10-02T00:00:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about our discussion on Tuesday about mothers. Certainly there were many facets to that topic, but one of them surely is mothers and maintaining sexuality, something I feel very strongly about.

So strongly that it caused me to get on my soap box with a friend and explain how horrible it is when a woman who grooms herself is punished by other mothers who don't, by the horribly duplicitous question, "WHERE do you find the time?" The words say one thing, but the stinging tone that often accompanies it implies, "WHY do you TAKE the time from your children? WHY do you find it necessary to fix yourself up? Don't you already have children? What's the need for looking attractive? Or, God forbid, what's the need for SEX?"

So today, to lighten the mood a bit after that rant, I decided to kill two birds with one stone. I wanted to feature some women who are not only taking the time to invest in themselves, many of them mothers, but are attempting to create things that will allow other women to do so as well.

They are Etsy designers who make PRETTY tops for women. I chose these designers specifically because they make the tops that I loved as a stay-at-home-mom. They are comfortable, low maintenance, but PRETTY, and, God forbid, SEXY. Especially when worn sans bra. Only this time, ladies, we're not losing the bras to free ourselves from male oppression. This time, we're losing the bras to get underneath some male 'Ohhh-ppression.' It works really well. Grin.

I have included a link behind each shop's name. Feel free to visit, read their profiles, browse and buy. Keep it up, ladies, on both ends.

The first shop, Flutter, is near and dear to my heart, as it is in Grand Rapids, Michigan, all creations by two lovely girls.

These three shirts are from their Petal collection.

This one is called Edelweiss. And I love the song. Bonus.

This is their Cerise

This is their Lupine.

Kimmchi shop- Deco Flower on Brown

ModestMaven shop-Branching Out top

MuttsyWonder shop-Atomic Purple Long Sleeve Vneck (Love this neckline. Very pretty.)

MuttsyWonder-Ptyerodactyl Poofy Sleeve Womens TShirt (Bonus: Lesson on dinosaurs!)

And my favorite from MuttsyWonder-Thistle Shirred Cap Sleeve Tee (Miss Ive loves thistles. And poofy sleeves.)

Grace-T

2008-10-01T00:00:00.004-04:00

Yeah. That's her name on the street. Check her.

Let's just say, she doesn't like when we flash all of her cards. She likes to stay on a low profile. I can't say much about her, but I'll say this. She's ONE today. And scrappy as hell. So don't even think about a birthday card, cuz she'll eat it. Really. She will.

I'm her Luca Brazi. She's got me on hat detail for the big party.

She sent me these photos (of my own children—she deals in intimidation) to illustrate her level of expectation:

(Notes above each photo were added by GRACE-T)~

Sans hat is unacceptable. Please. Birthdays are about embellishment.

Plastic party hat is unacceptable. Please. Elastic? On this chin? Seriously?

Handmade. Now we're talking. But blue? Please. Purple, pink, and streamers out the top. Grace-T deals in high-volume.

Now, normally, I'm a pretty scrappy girl myself. Letting a one-year-old push me around isn't really my style. However, sometimes, during 'bored' meetings, I get breathy phone calls that make me a little nervous. Shortly after, my sister calls with an 'apology' that Grace-T got 'her hands' on the phone again. Let's just say that a one-year-old who can dial my number (regularly) makes me 'fall into line.'

Am off to stock up on purple and pink hat supplies. Whatever. Don't judge. She's unseasonably strong for a tiny baby. Lots of teeth, too.

P.S. It should be said that, yes, I am aware that this baby-centric post comes just one day after this one. But however I may feel about the type of 'love' that should befall the babies in my life, I sure do love 'em. Actually, I've been known to eat them right up. Which is why I need more. So aunties, get on it. Seven more, please.

P.P.S. To Grace-T's mommy,
Congratulations on surviving your first year. You're an amazing mommy. She's gorgeous. . .and healthy (too bad you have the saggy boobs to prove it). . .and smart enough to know to call her auntie regularly. . .and REALLY UNSEASONABLY STRONG. I wasn't just saying that. And (other than the longitudinally-challenged bossom, you look fantastic, too. Rockin' little body!) You're a hellofa mom, Baby J. Really. So proud. And so thankful for my Grace-T.

P.P.P.S. Could you assure Grace-T that I'm all over the hat and seriously no breathy phone calls are necessary today. Our president is starting to get suspicious.

A Total Eclipse of the Heart

2008-09-30T00:00:00.001-04:00

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?"

National Cool Hand Luke Day

2008-09-29T00:00:00.002-04:00

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.

Am off to boil 50 eggs. Don't think I won't.

Gareth Keenan Investigates

2008-09-26T00:00:00.001-04:00

Remember this?

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.

Leftovers

2008-09-25T00:00:00.003-04:00

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?

Pumpkin Pancakes—with Spice

2008-09-24T00:00:00.001-04:00

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.

Any questions?

A Room of One's Own

2008-09-23T00:00:00.002-04:00

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?

Running Mad

2008-09-22T00:00:00.008-04:00

Good Monday, All!

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.

On a Lark

2008-09-17T23:57:00.005-04:00

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.

2. a merry, carefree adventure; frolic; escapade.

Well girls, remember this painting? And remember when I said I wanted to go see the real one?

It's official. We're going.

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.

So excited for a lark.

More later.

Sometimes, life is. . .

2008-09-16T01:00:00.002-04:00

About painful decisions.

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.

Sloppy SEO's

2008-09-15T01:00:00.006-04:00

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.

Back to the apple.

Love The Drake

2008-09-11T12:06:00.015-04:00

Okay, remember this painting from my post on Monday?

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.

So who's coming with me?

Day after 15 glasses of Veuve

2008-09-10T00:07:00.004-04:00

BRAIN DEAD. CALLING IN SICK. FAVORITE MOVIE CLIP TO APPEASE FRIENDS:

MAKES ME CRY LIKE A BABY EVERY TIME I WATCH. And want pancakes. Best scene in a movie. Ever.

Head. Hurts.

Birthday Wishes

2008-09-09T01:00:00.001-04:00

Today is my birthday. I will commence celebration at midnight.

I will don this. . .

And this. . .

And this. . .

And, of course, this. . .

And binge on this. . .

And, of course, this. . .

All day long. I seriously cannot fathom why people don't get excited about their birthdays after the age of 25. Love the birthdays. Love them.

The Song of the Lark

2008-09-07T21:21:00.009-04:00

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."

"What's it called?"

"I don't remember."

So I looked it up.

It's called The Song of the Lark.

And that explains the look on her face.

I knew I recognized it in my own.

Beautiful song.

A Comma War

2008-09-05T00:27:00.004-04:00

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."

He fixed them—All.

Love the comma.

The Hunt

2008-09-03T21:40:00.010-04:00

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."

I submit this, and its follow-up, this.

You have asked for someone who is "pro-active – knowing everything starts with your own initiative."

I believe this and this speak volumes about my initiative and extremely professional 'nature.'

I have included a gratuitous sample of my pithy ad copy.

And, finally, you have asked for someone who wants to "live in Seattle and experience this amazing city."

I submit this.

If you are interested, please send word.

Salary requirements: One life boat and a lifetime membership to Starbucks. And maybe some snacks.

Sincerely,

Miss Ive

Very Busy Work Day

2008-09-02T13:22:00.002-04:00

And this is what I'm watching instead.

Hoping that openly confessing this will get me back to work.

Or maybe just convince me to give it up and watch this, too.

Love the Ryan and Ephron collaborations. Will resign from real work today.

Neil Diamond

2008-08-27T22:56:00.002-04:00

Click on the link above in the title. Love this article. Love Neil Diamond. Love Cracklin' Rosie.

Okay, hit play. Watch how banal he looks in the beginning. And then . . . watch his dimples as he starts to warm up. Love it.

Read the article. Class act.

Good day, all. . .

Greedy Grins and Selfish Smiles

2008-08-26T22:37:00.006-04:00

The title I just claimed as my own is not that—my own. I'd love to lie to you and say that is it. And I could. Because the author is only 15 and she is my sister. I could bribe her. Tell her to let me have it for some pop tarts. But the truth is, she wrote it. And she wrote this post on her VERY OWN BLOG.

She is E. Fatale. But she is more than that. I'll not say much more than that, because she is my sister and I cherish her. I'm greedy and will not share her wholly with you all. But I will say this—watch for her. Watch for her when you walk through Barnes and Noble with a coffee ten years from now. Listen for her words in the mouths of future political incumbents. She will speak. And people will listen. I'm not quite sure where or how yet, and that's half of her magic. Her energy is all over the map. But her language gets me riled up, and barely anything does.

I read this post at midnight one night. I started with an, 'oh, she's blogging, how nice?' and it ended with me waking everyone in the house and shaking them and saying, "DO YOU KNOW WHO WROTE THIS?!"

E. Fatale, I adore you. We all do. I adore how, at age 15, your voice whispers that you know who you are. Not wholly, yet, but enough to stride strongly forward, pushing away anyone who tries to quiet that voice. I love that. You inspire me. Really.

All of you, go to this site today and tell just one young person to keep changing this world. Do it. Because she'll keep doing it. With or without you. Bookmark this site. Why? Because one day soon, maybe election day, you'll watch the world and feel sad. You'll say what I often do. . . 'Why? . . .Why?' And then you'll think of E. Fatale. You'll go to her site, and you'll hear new life. . . and youth. . . and hope. . and brilliance. And then you'll let the old just wash away. . .and you'll smile.

This song makes me think of my E. Fatale. It makes me think, with reverence, of our youth, often better than us. . .

Play it. A lot. Listen when they say, "That was when I ruled the world," because she does, now. . .

A Good Day for Love Stories. . .

2008-08-26T13:25:00.002-04:00

So tell me one. . .in three sentences or less. But first, close your eyes. Think back. Tell me your BEST. . .and that may mean your worst. . .

A Fountain of Families

2008-08-25T04:16:00.008-04:00

Well All, the wedding is over. What a wonderful, wonderful night. Really. All the dress drama over the summer culminated in grand style this weekend.

I'm still sifting through the mental snapshots and audio bytes from the evening and all the surrounding festivities, but today, I just want to say, THAT NIGHT WAS ONE FOR THE BOOKS.

What a wonderful family. I feel very lucking today to have such a group as In-Law's. And now the family has grown more. And the In-Law's of my In-Law's are fantastic, too.

The snapshot that I keep remembering most is a the group of women on the dance floor, laughing so hard that dancing was secondary. I feel very lucky.

My feet, however, have not yet recovered. . .Need more fountain, please.

ScotiaMade—Wry Wit with Pretty Pictures

2008-08-22T00:00:00.003-04:00

Starting this blog has inspired me to be more proactive about documenting my life in writing. The only problem is, it's all in my voice and from my P.O.V.—too boring.

So I have sought high and low for a voice that speaks to mine and somewhat like mine, but with more EDGE!

Have found one. Her name is Cheryl. That's how edgy she is—no last name. Like Madonna, or Cher.

I found her at her Etsy shop, ScotiaMade. If you have even one drop of unarticulated angst or dying-to-drip sarcasm in your person, please go there. She sells articulated wry wit on paper, with pretty illustrations, adding even more to the satire. And she even laminates said notes in the event you need to leave some poison on a car that will go unattended for awhile. BRILLIANT. Also, probably easier to remove fingerprints from a laminated card. Am making a note to myself about that now.

So, Cheryl, if you're reading this now, please drop me a note and let me know if you want the job of narrating my life—complete with dripping sarcasm. Well done, girl.

I've taken the liberty of 'mocking' up a sample of how we could lay it out, complete with samples from your shop.

Jerk that Pistol and Go To Work

2008-08-20T00:50:00.005-04:00

Tombstone is one of my favorite movies of all time. Honestly, some of the dialogue and scene set-ups are bit obvious and forced, but talk about riddled with great quotes. Watch the clip. Every time I see this scene, it puts me in the mood to go out into the world and do my worst. Today is that kind of day. I dedicate this post to my friends who walk into the world in this mood every day. Enjoy.

Memorable quotes:

That's the rumor.

Shut up, Ike.

Age quod agis.

Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him.

I spent my whole life not knowing what I want out of it, just chasing my tail. Now for the first time I know exactly what I want and who... that's the damnable misery of it.

There is no normal life, Wyatt, there's just life, ya live it.

It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds.

I'm your huckleberry...

I'm a woman, I like men. If that means I'm not "lady-like", then I guess I'm just not a lady! At least I'm honest.

Why Johnny Ringo, you look like somebody just walked over your grave.

Nonsense, I have not yet begun to defile myself.

You gonna do somethin'? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?

And one of my favorite exchanges of dialogue between Turkey Creek Jack Johnson and Doc Holiday:

Turkey Creek Jack Johnson: Why you doin' this, Doc?
Doc Holliday: Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.
Turkey Creek Jack Johnson: Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc Holliday: ...I don't.

You're no daisy! You're no daisy at all. Poor soul, you were just too high strung.

It would appear that the strain was more than he could bear.

And the list goes on. . .

Pint-sized Genius

2008-08-18T23:00:00.007-04:00

I'm at the computer yesterday.

Does that surprise anyone?

My two sons are playing behind me.

Oldest (6) says to youngest (3), "You're a baby."

But I only half hear it.

If you have kids, you'll get this.

And youngest says, "Not a bee-bee. NOT!"

And oldest says, "You ARE a baby."

And the cadence relaxes me. And I tune out.

If you have kids, you'll get this.

And I am interrupted by oldest saying, "Mom?"

And I say, "Yes, doll?"

And oldest says, "Isn't Max the cutest little baby?"

And I smile and turn, and my spell is broken, and I say, "YES! He is the cutest little baby!"

And oldest turns quickly to youngest and says, "SEEEEE. Mom says you're a baby, too!"

Fecking brilliant. Must sharpen wit to spar with six-year-old.

Emily Post Goes Wild

2008-08-18T03:36:00.019-04:00

I've decided that my sisters are just too good. I must brag.

So I’ll start with the eldest. We’ll call her Lilu, as that is what my sons call her. That is her on the left, looking lovely.

And for the sake of economy, I will offer only three anecdotes that will give you all a sampling of the breadth of her greatness.

The Classic Beauty

Lilu is a lovely girl, yes. But it’s more than that. She’s got something else, too. Some people call it charisma. Some people call it ‘that spark.’ Well, she has it—in spades.

She stops traffic, literally.

On a trip to Italy with my father when she was 21, she walked with him down a busy street on their way to dinner. She wore a little black dress.

A bus of Italian men driving past stopped in the middle of traffic and all the men moved to the side of the bus which allowed them the best vantage point from which to appreciate her ‘spark.’ God, I love Italy.

My father told me the story. “She didn’t even notice,” he laughed. Like I said—IN SPADES.

The Model Soldier

Lilu modeled in high school. Mostly runway due to her height (and charisma). When she was 17, a scout from Ford Models contacted her and my parents asking if she would come to New York. My mother declined on her behalf, politely. Lilu did not mind. It was more of an amusement for her anyway, she said.

She was more interested in a grand adventure. One that involved more ‘seeing’ than being seen. So she joined the Air Force when she was 20.

She came home and announced to my father, himself a veteran, that she had signed the papers. Wish you could have seen the look. It was not pride. “Why?” he asked. “I saw Private Benjamin and thought it looked fun. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she said.

And so she went off in a very tiny plane surrounded by large young men. She was grinning and waving. They were not. Quite a mix.

And she traveled and had great adventures and met a wonderful man whom she married. He's a champ. And so patient handling all her 'charisma.'

And after five years serving her country with high praise and honors, the anthrax vaccine began to circulate. And she worked in the pharmacy. And she saw what was happening to women who took it. It was horrible, she said. The most damning evidence against it was written on the vaccine itself, in very small print: Not proven to not cause birth defects, it said.

My sister is lion-hearted. And, she had not yet had children. So that was that. When it was her turn on the rotation to begin the eight-month series of shots, she said No Thank You, ever the polite girl. She was only in the military for six more months, she argued. Wouldn’t even be able to finish the series, let alone be transferred to a high-risk place that warranted that sort of preventative action.

So they took away her stripes, one at a time, and with it her pay, each time she refused. They would not kick her out, but they reduced her pay to the point that she could barely survive. So she decided to ‘encourage’ them to kick her out.

She went to the pharmacy one morning, sat in front of her computer, and drafted an email warning all women not to take it. She gave specific examples of what it was doing to their bodies. And then she sent it, to the entire base.

Within five minutes she found herself in the top guy’s office. What do they call him? Colonel? And she was shaking, but steel-faced.

And he walked in and shut the door. And he said, “Are you determined to not take the vaccine?”

And she said, “Yes, sir. I am.”

And he said, “Okay. When I sign these papers you will be dishonorably discharged and lose all rights to veteran benefits (including the free tuition for medical school on which she had been counting and the VA loan for a home). Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Okay.” And he signed.

And he told her she could leave. And as she did, he added, “Off the record, I wouldn’t have taken it either.”

And she smiled.

The Etiquette Evangelist

Lilu did go to college. And she paid for it, with no regret. And now she is a middle school teacher living in the mountains of Northern Idaho, surrounded by a backdrop that complements her own mix of strength, majesty and beauty.

And she teaches a gratuitous class on etiquette to those young people. And though her colleagues find it ‘quaint’ and ‘antiquated,’ she just smiles and pushes on with her cause.

And why do you think she has a heart for such a cause? Because she wants to bring a love of fine things paired with ferver and knowledge to all. Because she is all of those things—in spades.

I dedicate this song to my sister Lilu today. It is one of her favorites, and suits her so well. . .

So Bloody Geeked

2008-08-15T10:13:00.003-04:00

Every time Steely Dan comes to town, my husband goes out with the guys from his college band and they have a hellofa boys' night. And I love that. I love that they have that.

But sometimes it makes me sad because before I was his wife, I was his friend and was friends with the band members. And we played hard.

And you know what? Last night, my husband called me and told me he was INVITING ME OUT WITH THE BOYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I AM GOING. I AM SO EXCITED. THANK YOU, HUSBAND. THANK YOU.

Promise to be on my best behavior. For the most part. Grin.

The Trade In

2008-08-13T20:49:00.006-04:00

As a marketeer by trade and nature, I often wonder why an entire demographic is sometimes left out of an ad campaign. Obviously, you don't sell Scotch to toddlers (although TEETHING toddlers are 'sorely' under-represented in the hard liquor industry). But then there are campaigns that seem to preemptively say, That group won’t buy this, so why waste dollars trying to sell it to them?

But does anything about that sentiment make sense? Hey, let’s spend lots of money trying to get the attention of people who already buy it. Hmmm? I really do get it. I do. But I'm too scrappy not to go after the elusive fish. And I feel like writing this ad 'outside the demographic' so I'm just gonna do it. This is my land. The land of 'off brief.'

Take Ford’s F-150, my all-time-favorite vehicle. And I’m a girl. And I’m a girly girl. And why, then, might I like this truck? Because it’s manly. Duh.

Imagine what you could do with an ad campaign that sold the world’s greatest ‘man’ to women, complete with a key.

I call this The Trade In:

Ext. Ford Dealership sales lot

Salesman
(Standing with man and woman next to new F-150, addressing the man, of course)
It has the new Tailgate Step. You open the tailgate, pull down the step and it helps you climb in.

Pan to woman. V.O. of her thinking

Woman
Help me into the truck? What a gentleman.

Woman climbs into the cab, shuts the door and rolls down the window to hear more.

Salesman
(To man)
It has a 5.4-Liter, 3-Valve Triton V-8 engine.

Pan to woman. V.O. of her thinking

Woman
And he’s strong . . .

Salesman
It has Voice-Activated Navigation

V.O. of woman thinking

Woman
And he’s good with directions. . .

This continues for roughly 15 more seconds of the spot.

Woman
(leans out window and addresses salesman)
Didn't you say you take trade ins?

Salesman
(beaming at the scent of a sale)
Absolutely.

Woman
(Pointing to the man still standing in lot with salesman)
Fantastic. Then you can keep him. I’ll take this one.

Woman and F-150 peel out of lot.

Salesman
(A bit confused, to man)
Um, I did't see that one coming. Did you?

Man
(Shrugs) Well, sort of.

Pike's Place

2008-08-12T08:01:00.005-04:00

Can I start by saying that I hate slide shows. And I hate when people go on trips with only the 'slide show in mind.' But I have to share this about my trip. I was with my sisters. And I adore my sisters. Anyone would, really. They're like me. Enough said.

So we go to Pike's Place one night to purchase fish for dinner. And if you've clicked on the above spot, you'll get what this place does to people, especially women.

There are men and they are wearing waders. They are young and it is believable that they are the ones who actually go out onto the boats. And they throw fish—right over your head. And they chant.

Are there women reading this? Are you getting this? Pike's Place is to women as Victoria's Secret is to men. A bit disorienting.

So I'm in charge of picking the fish for dinner, and all I can think about are waders and flying fish.

So I settle on Chilean Sea Bass. A favorite.

This is actually how it went. The man in waders, standing next to me, large dead fish in hand, says, What can I get you?

And I spit out, Halibut. Yes, halibut. And then, Crab, yes, crab. And then I see the Bass. And I love it. So I buy nearly ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS worth. It was the waders, I swear.

And they pack it for me. And I leave in female triumph. I have come. I have purchased.

And then my brother-in-law asks, so nicely, Did you notice that Chilean Sea Bass is not fished out of this area? Did you notice the tag said 'frozen?'

And at this point I'm away from the waders and the male fish-throwing and I say, Hah?

And he says, Just saying.

And I say, Son-of-b*&^%$.

And he says, Just saying.

So I ate fish, IN SEATTLE, from Chili. Bloody waders.

Pee-pee plane

2008-08-11T01:00:00.002-04:00

How do you begin a post with a title like that? Well, it goes like this. We're in Spokane. We're headed, all four of my family, to Seattle and then on to Detroit. All bags are checked. All CLOTHING is checked. We board the jump flight by walking out onto the, what do they call that?, tarmack? You know, when there's no tunnel thingy? And the plane is creepyly small. But you sort of feel like the president because you're hopping onto such a tiny plane? You get it.

So it's over-booked. We've purchased four tickets, but we find only three seats. And you know what? I could care less. Just get us the hell out of here, she's thinking. And so I grab both boys and slide into the last two seats on the left. Husband finds seat near front, conveniently.

And then the engines roar, and then the wheels begin to move, and then I feel something warm spreading over my trousers. Yep. I do. And I know what it is. And I ask him, and he confirms it. Yep, I pee-peed. And, remember, all the clothes are checked, and remember, we have a FIVE hour flight directly after this one.

And then, just as the seat belt lights disappear, the drink cart appears, on my left. And you know what that means? We are at the back of the plane and the bathroom is at the front. So we will have to wait until that fecking drink cart gets all the way up and all the way back. So you know what I order from that drink cart? Ten glasses of wine.

Fabulous flight. Loved it. Very warm lap.

A Call for Justice

2008-08-07T12:13:00.003-04:00

You may have all noticed that Miss Ive has an addictive personality. If not, just so you know, she does. After last week's success on the zoo vote, she is now going after bigger fish.

I am enclosing a post from a contributor on Peterman's Eye today because it moved me. Really. It will you, too. A very eloquent plea. Please read and pass. Especially to powerful can-do types, like yourselves. Love ya'll.

Friends,

If I may turn the subject a little bit, let me tell you how an exemplar of courage, hard work, and self reliance may benefit from your practical assistance.

Lancaster, SC ( pronounced LAN kuh ster, not like LAN CASS ter, PA) is a sleepy place. The entire county has just over 60,000 residents. The county was founded in 1785 and their red brick courthouse was designed by Robert Mills, who also designed the Washington Monument. Lancaster was the home of Col Elliott White Springs and Springs Mills was for a long time the dominant employer. I will leave for someone else the pleasant job of discussing Col. Springs, a colorful man who had much in common with President Roosevelt.

On monday, the historic courthouse was badly damaged by an arsonist's efforts. In South Carolina, the prosecutor is called a SOLICITOR and the Solicitor whose territory includes Lancaster is a fine fellow of just under 50 named Doug Barfield.

You would like Doug. He has a Harley Davidson, but he doesn't talk about it much. He is a graduate of Clemson and USC Law. His wife teaches foreign language at the local high school, where Doug's father was once the Ag (riculture) teacher. They have two sons. A couple of years ago, Doug had himself an intestinal disaster while visiting his inlaws near Charleston. He ended up with a colostomy bag for about 4 months and a fairly entertaining routine of stories and commentary about the experience. He had few complaints. He is a thorough and methodical trial lawyer, more given to persistence and details than to flash or histrionics. He doesn't try many cases, because defense lawyers know that he usually wins.

I am telling you about Doug because it seems pretty clear that someone burned the courthouse to stop him from trying some criminal case. Just now, which criminal case is unclear. In case there was any question, Doug announced on Monday that court would go on, in an alternative location. On tuesday, they began the process of cleaning up, while carrying on the usual business of criminal court in a small southern town. Early this morning, the same forces struck again, this time burning Doug's office across the street.

Once he gets the mud cleared away, I am sure Doug will repeat his intention not to be stopped.

While the contemplative discussion of this community is a fine thing, I am asking each of you to see what you can do to assist Jeff Hammond, the affable and capable Clerk Of Court for Lancaster County, SC, and Doug Barfield, the Sixth Circuit Solicitor. Someone will eventually organize some kind of relief project. Eventually, Insurance companies will reimburse losses. But today, there is a need for clerical help and the most basic kind of grunt work. Your efforts to call attention to this situation will help.

Thanks

Willie Trask

On the Lamb (Forget-me-not)

2008-08-06T01:00:00.003-04:00

To all who voted yesterday, I thank you. Sincerely. Here is the news as of Two AM (Can you tell I'm still not sleeping?)

"Detroit- Voters in Oakland, Wayne and Macomb counties have overwhelmingly passed a special property tax to help fund operations at the Detroit Zoo." -Click On Detroit.com

You'll be pleased to know that Miss Ive did vote, but almost forgot, after all that fuss. Does that surprise anyone?

She has been distracted. But she will be back with her typical verve very shortly.

It might also please you all to know that when she did vote, she colored outside of the lines on the little bubbles, something she highly recommends, actually, and was scolded sorely by poll volunteers. She, in return, 'accidentally' dropped her entire breakfast bag of nuts onto their tidy little table. Ahhhh. It made her feel better.

Miss Ive will be out of touch for the rest of the week while she catches up on tons of work (beefing up her defense for recent zoo exploits).

Can't tell you all how much it meant to see your faces on here while away in the mountains. So dear to me.

Will be with you soon.

Forget-me-not.

THE BIG DAY!!!

2008-08-05T01:00:00.002-04:00

Miss Ive will keep this short and sweet, as she knows you ALL HAVE ENOUGH TO DO TODAY!

You all remember how Miss Ive's first attempt to save the zoo ended.

So don't do that.

Just go vote. Trust her.

And then go straight home and congratulate yourself for being so kind to your fellow creatures.

And you can do it like she does.

Or you can do it like she does.

And remember how Miss Ive will reward you all for helping. PUBLIC HUMILIATION.

See You All at the Polls!

Day 5

2008-08-04T01:00:00.002-04:00

Do you remember where we left Miss Ive last week? Remember this?

Yeah, Miss Ive has a sneaking suspicion he does, too. She will wait to read the official report to be sure.

The rest of Miss Ive's story is growing near to close. And, as the rest of it went fairly quickly, she will let the pictures speak for themselves. Especially since her recently acquired legal counsel has requested she shut her gob.

Let's just say, hypothetically, that after she'd filled herself full of ice cream,if indeed she ever did such a thing, she was a little tired.

And then, suppose she was a lot tired.

And then, though the photo has since been destroyed by said lawyer for fear of 'defamation of character' do to obscene exposure, let's just presume she was really, really tired. And made herself right at home. All over that bed.

And suppose some parents with young children were a bit surprised and offended by Miss Ive's making herself at home, and contacted zoo authorities.

And suppose Miss Ive heard them calling and got the hell out of there as fast as her feet would take her, which, technically, would have led to a sequence not unlike this:

Of course, this is just one possibility. Miss Ive honestly has no recollection. Honest.

Okay, lawyer has stepped out for hot beverage. That's pretty much exactly how it went down. And Miss Ive really IS sorry. REALLY.

And she's not exactly sure, now that she thinks back, how she got to the zoo in the first place or what Ms. Goodall would have done differently. But, she has developed a new zoo-saving strategy for tomorrow, that will, hopefully, involve less, let's just say, POSTURING.

Very Big Day tomorrow, all. Stay tuned.

Day 4

2008-08-01T02:22:00.003-04:00

Miss Ive left the butterfly house at the top of her game. The phrase that came to Miss Ive was 'fat and happy,' which made her think of food, of course. And she had none, of course. So she consulted the map.

And though she truly appreciated its diverse colors, textures, and Fung Shui-ish-ness, she did not find it all that helpful in the food-finding department. And as she pondered what to do next, she stood with her back to this. Yes, I know.

But when the heady scent of processed sugar and artificial coloring is in the air, Miss Ive has an internal compass. And only minutes later, she found this lovely bouquet, which, alas, she could not open due to the entire tub of body butter still coating her entire person, particularly her outer extremities. Remember? Okay, point: butterflies. Drat.

Which made her slightly desperate.

And then even more desperate.

Side note: Miss Ive thinks this gentleman deserves a raise. He would not, under any circumstances, give up the Dippin' Dots. Highly commendable. Wish you could have seen the look on Miss Ive's face. But after she knocked him out cold and dragged him to the aquarium to nap with the fish, she did have her fill of delicious ice cream, fashioned into tiny dots. She's not sure what she thinks of these, by the way.

But she is thankful for them and sincerely hope that the young man attending the cart has since recovered nicely. Miss Ive is sorry. And, if it makes him feel any better, she did cover him up and leave a wall of WET FLOOR signs blockading him from aquarium traffic. She is a thoughtful girl.

Stay tuned for more Jane Jones Chronicles on Monday of next week. Bring hot beverage and a synopsis, detailing why Miss Ive is at the zoo in the first place.

Day 3

2008-07-31T01:00:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-30T01:00:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-29T01:00:00.005-04:00

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.