Sand In My Swimsuit

J.Crew Vs J. Peterman

2008-07-01T12:23:00.003-04:00

I've just clicked on the ‘shopping’ bookmark in my browser and found only two names:

J.Crew
J. Peterman

Notice anything? I've decided that I must eliminate one, lest I begin to look, well, predictable. I'll do so with a very fair point system.

Let’s begin:

The ‘J’ in J.Crew, to the best of my knowledge, stands for nothing.
The ‘J’ in J. Peterman stands for John.

POINT: PETERMAN

J.Crew currently has 17 categories listed under “Women,” on which I can spend money I don't, in fact, have.
J. Peterman only has 10.
This is a tricky one to judge, depending on how you feel about credit, interest and the opportunity to stimulate your economy. I'm personally a huge fan of stimulation, of any kind.

POINT: CREW

J.Crew was alluded to in the hit sitcom FRIENDS.
J. Peterman was AN ACTUAL CHARACTER in the world’s most perfect sitcom ever, SEINFELD.

POINT: PETERMAN

J.Crew has nautical sweaters for puppies.
J. Peterman sells exotic caftans made OUT of puppies, and yaks, and tumble weed. . .

POINT: PETERMAN
(Way to think out of the box. PETA can suck it.)

J.Crew has very pretty pictures that make me genuinely believe that their Claudine blouse also comes with a very pretty man who serves halves of pink grapefruits to me in my bed, which is located at the end of a dock, somewhere in the Ozarks.
J.Peterman has sketches, no pretty men in sight.

Hmmm. This is a tough one, because though I love the pretty-men-pictures, I am always a bit disappointed when I pull the wrinkled and somewhat obnoxiously-hued Claudine blouse from the box and find that the rest of the things are not included. No pretty man, no halved grapefruit that brilliantly sets off the pinkness of my morning glow, no Ozarks. Just an invoice that, if I look closely, is sure to bring up the bile in my gut. So if I judge this like a responsible adult would. . . Oh, screw it. I love those pictures.

POINT: CREW

J.Crew sends me regular emails, which leads me to believe they return my affections.
J. Peterman doesn't call, he doesn't write. Sigh.

POINT: CREW

Have tallied the score and, shockingly, it is a tie.

Have decided to hold a tie-breaking, winner-takes-all round.

The first ‘J’ to contact me regarding sponsoring my site and supplying me with a lifetime supply of their merchandise will remain in my browser permanently. A timely response is requested.

My Dossier

2009-05-15T13:20:00.026-04:00

{ fleurdeleigh photography, fellow LookingGlassLane girl}

You won't find me here too often these days, as I've shacked up with four talented chicas at our new clubhouse on LookingGlassLane. But I still get all your emails, so feel free to peruse, comment and send me notes. I love them. And obviously, come visit us at the clubhouse. If you like Miss Ive, you'll love Miss Ive times FIVE. Yes I just stole the Body Imposters' tag line.

Meet the girls:

Morgan
Leigh
Ria
Suzanne

Jen's LookingGlass Dossier

Looking Glass Powers:
Finding and gathering extraordinary people. Just look at these girls. Voila.
The ability to simultaneously harness the uncensored voice of Henry Miller and the jaded acerbity of Erma Bombeck, and write it down whilst hanging from the limb of a tree.
The ability to shotgun a beer in such a fashion that even Emily Post would approve and add it to her "Things that will impress your mother-in-law" list.
The ability to reel in a fish and use her charm and wit to find someone else to take it off the hook for her.
The ability to pitch a tent in the pouring rain. And by pitch a tent, she means the canvas-and-pole variety, for the record.
The ability to groom so minimally that something as little as gloss on her lips garners accolades from the Queen. [Curtsy and bow.]

Dress-up Closet:
J.Crew. Hands down. Why? She WAY digs the rubber-boots-with-Irish-linen look. WAY.
J. Peterman Company. Why? She can never remember because the copy always leaves her fanning her face and somewhat disoriented. Yuh HUH.
Farm dresses circa 1940, in any condition, preferably paired with flip flops, in any condition.
Aprons. Any and all. It's a domesticity fetish. Is that oxy-moronic?

Disguise:
Burt's Baby Bee Apricot Oil in copious amounts and their not-to-bee-outdone Beeswax lip balm. Makes her lips tingle and she gets panicky when she can't find hers. Remember Napoleon's pleas to Kip? She's resorted to pinning arms behind backs to get information leading to her missing balm.

Go-To Gadget:
Two. One in each holster. Her iPhone on one side and a roll of duct tape on the other. Although she is currently in talks with Mr. Jobs about developing an app that will dispense duct tape, which would render the latter unnecessary. Cross fingers for major gadget consolidation.

Vice:
People Magazine. One copy can take her out of commission for a good three hours. If Jen and Ben are on the cover, make it four. How DO they keep the magic alive?

Magic Potion:
Starbucks RedEye and Gray Goose vodka, neat. Sometimes both, simultaneously. We don't recommend that she be reintroduced to the public for at least an hour after she's consumed this combination.

Battery-Recharge Hub (other than Looking Glass Lane, of course):
The tip-top of the tallest sand dune overlooking Little Traverse Bay, Michigan, and night trains racing across any open terrain.

Bratty Spoilers:
Extra long runs with no end in sight. Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey, microwaved for 37 seconds.

Owner's Manual:
Moby Dick, Melville. She has read Chapter XCIV, The Squeeze of the Hand, 12 and one half times. Also Bridget Jones's Diary, lest she get too full of herself.

Weapon:
First line of defense, her Wilson ProStaff racquet. Never approach the net when playing her. Never. Second line of defense, her overly-sharpened tongue. Again, never approach the net. Evahhhh.

How she gets to the Lane:
In her Mazda3, generally starting in first gear, but skipping 2-4 and shifting directly to 5 for expediency. And if she's extra eager to get to her girls, she'll opt for her Adidas SuperNova's and run through all yards standing in her way. Please watch your small pets.

Secret Ambition
This. Right here. Working creatively and collaboratively with a dream team of powerful DOERS. I heart my LookingGlassLane girls. Please join us as we pull off some seriously outta-this-world sh$%.

And recent inductees who have dared to write their own (so awesome, btw, especially John, the brave male adventurer in very girlie waters.)

Christeen Mary
Nakia
John
Jenn
April
Erin
Steph
Kim
Elora

And our honoree inductee, Rajesh Pancholi of R27 CreativeLab for his amazing design and generosity on LookingGlassLane.com

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.

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.

"Get Busy"

2009-04-25T12:55:00.030-04:00

This is me last year.

There's no dialogue bubble, so lemme subtitle the expression on my face.

"Where the HELL am I, HOW did I get here and WHERE on God's Green Earth am I headed?"

(Metaphorically and in a life sense, of course. I'm actually quite adept at geography.)

Now fast forward to today. I'm a blogger now. I do things. More specifically, if you've read my bio, I do shenanigans. I tell people I keep it short and cryptic because I dig white space, but everyone who reads this blog knows that's a LIE. Truth is, I don't know exactly what it means yet. But I know I'm getting much closer to a hard plan.

And I attribute much of that to the amazing people I've met in this socially-cyber place who are making a real go of it. I'm speaking with them. I'm listening to them. And I'm watching what works.

I recently had the honor of joining Talent Revolution's site, and was bowled over by the sheer force of positive energy that greeted me. Nay, greeted is too prosaic. Let's just say that when you sign up, get in your best athletic stance, and brace yourself for a herd of running huggers and excited screamers. And it's genuine. The energy there is unnerving and moving. And when they promise "a drastic change in thinking and behaving," they mean it. And when people's actions match their promises, I sit up and take notice. Like I said, I watch what works.

Now here's where this story gets a little goosebumpy. If you've read my Twitter Current Theory, you already know how I feel about the crazy coincidences of the paths we cross here and why.

Three days ago, I sat reading an old blog post by Talent Revolution Founder and CEO, Amanda Hite, aka @Sexythinker.

You can (and absolutely should) read the whole thing over at Talent Revolution. To summarize, it's a piece about her bucket list. Her goals. The path that led her to defining them, and then to realizing them. It's powerful. It's honest. It's brave. It's flipping hilarious.

And ya wanna know when she published that post? Ya wanna?

Literally days before that shot of me was taken. When I was thinking of my own bucket list.

Yuh huh.

And if you have a second to follow me through my own journey, you'll see what can happen if you listen and watch others who have done what you want to do.

These are the three passages that lingered as I finished her post. And still do.
. . .
As I write down things like "get busy on the roof top of our favorite restaurant/bar in Laguna Beach," I hope I won’t have to share the list with my class.

Ultimately, I leave with a five-year plan, complete with a budget and 12 months worth of action steps. (Apparently, this is a process only 3% of the population takes the time to do. A process I swear by now that I’ve done it.)

At this moment, I couldn’t ask for more.
. . .

My God's honest, hand-to-heaven, first reaction after reading the post? These two questions formed, almost simultaneously: What does she have to "get busy" fixing on the roof of that restaurant? And, What is this thing she calls "a five-year plan?"

Yuh huh.

I'm that lame. When I read it over for the third time, I got it. Oh, get busy. She's talkin' about . . . (huge smile, partial blush).

And that led me to think, Why does a girl my age, who has two children, not know what that means?

Which led me back to my own bucket list, written in a flower-embossed journal, by a 17-year-old, barely-been-kissed girl, which says things like . . .

Buy a farm.
Own a home that is more porch than anything else and has a screen door that sees a lot of action from neighbors.
(Note: AT least something on my bucket list was "getting busy.")
Own a 1976 F-150, oxydized blue.
Wear braids when you're a grandmother.

Are you hearing this chick? She has everything on her list but the sunset and the rocking chairs, and is hailing a dilapidated old rust bucket to drive her straight into it. And so can you guess where she's been heading for the past decade? Can ya?!

Yuh HUH.

I once had a ski instructor tell me, "You'll always head where you're looking. Always." That stuck. But apparently I hadn't made the metaphoric leap.

Honestly, all the things on my list still sound nice. But I've been building a paradigm rather than living a life. Daily. Every minute. Every second. Right now. On rooftops. I've been wishing and waiting, rather than just getting busy.

So can you guess what I'm doing today?

YUH HUH.

New bucket list. And this one is being written based on the Amanda-Hite model. Write it quickly and from the gut. Things I want RIGHT NOW. Things I can go get RIGHT NOW.

(Huge smile spreading across my face.)

*Warning* If you're on my list, brace yourself, because the driving theme is "Get Busy."

And speaking of driving, first item on the list:

Road trip to Drastic Change.

In the mood? If not, read Keeping Right, another brilliant post by the Talent Revolution team. You will be.

Kicking off shoes and loading the iPod with driving tunes.

Thank you, Talent Revolution for your amazing welcome. Thank you, Amanda for your bold honesty. Thank you, Leigh for the introduction. And thank you, Chris for pushing me to write.

Dumpster Diving

2009-02-25T00:00:00.002-05:00

Spent a lot of time over the weekend thinking about what makes me tick. What I DO. What I've always DONE.

Shenanigans are pretty much what I came up with.

(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. Duh.

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, member?)

Me: Dad, I found something I want at the camp store. Mind if I take the girls and round up some pop cans to pay for it?
Dad: What is it?
Me: A fishing pole.
Dad: You can use mine.
Me: No. I want my own.
Dad: I can give you some money.
Me: No. Mind if I go for a bit?
Dad: That's fine. Your mother and I wanted to head into town for some supplies. 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. I can.
Dad: Go ahead.

Then I had to pitch it to my sisters. Lilu was almost thirteen (tricky). Jaime Lynn, almost eight (if you'll pardon the pun, 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 where campers throw their trash on their way out of town. 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.

Mother: "Is THAT OUR GIRLS?!"
Dad: (suppressing grin) Yep.

(Back at the campsite, slightly mussed and certainly not smelling my best, I prepared for the 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. Trash cans and beach bathrooms weren't going to cut it.
Dad: (grinning) Let's get these, and YOU, washed up.
Me: (upon examining the cans closer) SHITE. Twenty-four of them are from Canada. No refund.
Dad: Language?
Me: Sorry. CRAP.
Dad: (reaching in pocket and handing me a five) You earned this.
Me: Thanks, dad. And you can keep my cans.

I still remember how it hurt my pride to take that money. But the coffee grounds on my outstretched arm consoled me. I HAD 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.

Any suggestions on how I can monetize shenanigans, at a higher rate than three dollars and sixty cents per ninety minutes, less two dollars and forty cents for error, and without gratuitous influxes of cash from dad?

I'm open.

Here Is Where We Meet

2009-03-20T01:49:00.002-04:00

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 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

C'mon Alex

2008-07-03T12:19:00.001-04:00

Every morning when I run, I hit a wall in the last half mile. It’s crazy really. You would think after 12 years at it, my body would adjust. It must be mental. I can hear those who know me well as they read this. Out of the sides of their mouths, they are saying—Oh, it’s mental alright.

So I save Arcade Fire’s song _Neighborhood #2 (Laika)_ for that last leg. It’s got that you-could-run-up-the-steep-side-of-Everest-and-be-back-by-tea-time sort of quality. Really. Hit the arrow above and you’ll agree. Only strap in first, lest you find yourself running up the sides of your cubicle—something that our company’s president has kindly requested that I refrain from trying again. Whatever. Everybody loves the NEW styling cubicles we got out of that, well, botched experiment.

Oh, and one more thing about this song, for any literary types. Every time it begins, for some inexplicable reason, I think of Herman Melville. Not Melville the austere author, but young Herman, as he looked down at his twenty-some-year-young feet standing on the old, warped planks of the Acushnet, before it left port. The Herman who must have, at least for a moment, looked down as the water below him started to move past the hull and said, Oh crap, I’m on a whaling ship. What the FECK am I doing on a whaling ship? Don’t you think he must have? At least once? Every grand adventure has at least a moment of that. Otherwise, how grand can it possibly be? Play the song again. Close your eyes this time. And think about those very young feet, and the water passing by underneath them.

Alexander . . . our older brother . . . set off for a . . . . GREAT ADVENTURE.

Happy Fourth, All. Have yourself a. . .GREAT ADVENTURE.

#untweet

2009-04-01T09:41:00.004-04:00

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

(Bearded, dancing ladies compliments of the deliciously wacky mind of @LindsayGriffith)

Dear @unMarketing,

First, you should know that all the girls who got involved with this stunt did so because they love ya.

Because not only are you the king of unMarketing, you're . . .

unSelfish, as seen by all the ways you push us and encourage us, and the fact that you did so even when we were new here.

unDaunted, as seen in your 12for12K Tweetathon with @dannybrown.

unCreepy (a big one, in my book), as seen by the fact that you don't shoot DM's like this: So, whatcha wearin' today, sweet stuff?

and finally . . .

unStoppably Optimistic, as @fleurdeleigh termed so aptly in the way that only she can. You bring amazing energy to our lives daily. Without fail.

And that's all I'm sayin', before you think I've gone soft. But anyone can feel free to add to more of your unQualities below. I suppose.

Hope this made you smile today, ya Hooligan.

And UNLadies, I can't begin to say what it means to have met girls so game and ready for mischief. Seriously a bit overwhelmed by the level of shenanigan you bring to the table. This stunt has been great fun, but it's also allowed me to plot with unbelievable women of the marketplace who bring everything they have to all parts of their lives, even shenanigans. And for a girl who takes that term seriously enough to bill it as her sole service to the world, that's something.

To @LindsayGriffith, @fleurdeleigh, @balemar, @SarahRobinson, @marieforleo, @sexythinker, @sandygrason, @GinaLaGuardia, @RedHotCopy and to all the rest of you fun enough to join in today, you rock. I look forward to many stunts with ya'll in the future. These gals are all must-follows.

Going back up to play @Lindsay's video again. And laugh my arse off.

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

2009-03-22T22:47:00.000-04:00

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 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.

The True Story of Hotel Iroquois

2008-06-24T16:52:00.001-04:00

I’m not gonna lie to you, I often lie on this blog. My life is not that exciting so often what you’ll read, my one-and-only reader, will contain only a germ of my actual life and the rest will be gratis. But not today. Today my dear friend and former roommate, Jenn, sent me a link that is so horribly funny and true and, well, it was like a big honey pot poured over my morning.

Brief Back-story:
Jenn and I met for the first time when we were assigned to share a room as summer employees of Hotel Iroquois on Mackinac Island, Michigan. This was our apartment building. She got there the week before I did. When I opened the door to my new home, a little worse for the wear after a turbulent ferry ride and a mile long walk, uphill, through horse crap, I saw that while my half of the room was bare, the other half had been plastered with red and green sorority deco. I’m not exaggerating. Even a little. If I hadn’t been so exhausted and poop-covered, I’d have turned tail and gotten the hell out of there. Would have been a huge mistake. She’s the best, Best, BEST. Did I already say bestest?

Please read on. The owners of the hotel are all women. A family of old Irish women who, I am of the opinion, hate men. They also hate women who, again, my opinion, are living and, even more incredibly, have the nerve to work for them. They’re haters. Again, my opinion. One of them is a lawyer who, just my luck, probably specializes in libel. My opinion, only.

For two girls who loved to break apart human weakness and ogle its parts, they were the best kind of employers. One of them in particular, the eldest daughter, whose initials look a lot like the letters ‘M’ and ‘K,’ was the worst—my opinion. She lived in a beautiful and spacious cottage across the street from the hotel, not surprisingly, all by herself. That part is a fact. When she would come into the hotel you could hear her immediately as she was the only person IN THIS WORLD who would wear three-inch heals that early in the morning on an island covered in horse shit. That is also fact. That pretty much tells you everything you need to know. Let me recap. Hates men, and women, and anyone who works for her who dares to make eye contact with guests, or with horses. or with horse crap, lives in huge cottage by her lonesome, oh, and I almost forgot, is a lawyer who most likely specializes in libel—but that’s only my opinion.

So Jenn sent me this link this morning.

MK is renting her cottage for the entire summer, indefinitely. Apparently, not even IT was good enough for her. I hesitate here because, though Jenn will be disappointed in me for not remaining hardened, maybe she had a calamity befall her. Maybe she’s broke or maybe she’s brok-en. Maybe she got married and has adopted more babies than Angelina and they can no longer fit into that palatial palace. Or maybe she just wants to have some poor, rich family move in for the summer so she can have even more people under her thumb. The attached ad leads me to believe that it is most likely the latter. This sentence says it all:

“Incredibly well trained dogs are welcome with references and an additional fee.”

As tempted as I was to put “with references” in all caps and bold font, I think it’s just the kind of crazy that doesn’t need any feathering, if you know what I mean. WITH REFERENCES!!!

Um, does anyone have the number for the dog-catcher in Detroit, a group of ex-cons who’d like to earn a buck as stand-in referents, and 10,000 bucks to invest in a month you (and MK) will never forget? Please write.

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.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2008-07-24T09:22:00.007-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then she smiles. And then we laugh.

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

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

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

Bloody window.

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 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.

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.

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

@SarahRobinson

2009-02-12T23:37:00.004-05:00

The above title is something I can practically type in in my sleep these days (and often do) . My new friend on Twitter, introduced by @johnhaydon and @unmarketing, has entered my life like a tour de force, whipping me into shape with her mompreneur savvy. (For those of you not on Twitter, the whole '@' thing must really be freaking you out!) Good. It will shame you into coming over and joining us in the Twitterverse.

Twitter is like mini-blogging. Each "feed" has space for 140 characters. It's a puzzle—a word game, if you will. I believe I could compose a novel from the words and spare characters I've had to edit out of my Tweets, just to make them fit. And maybe I should.

I joined Twitter about six months ago. The same day I started my blog. After pacing for weeks, wondering if I was ready to put myself out 'there' like this, I just dove in.

My first Tweet: I just threw all my balls into the air.

And my first post? Terrified.

And now I'm here. Pulling shenanigans daily with you all. Very glad I put myself out there. Or is it "in here?"

And very glad of all the wonderful people it's help me stay in touch with and the people it's brought into my life, like @SarahRobinson, and the hooligans listed above.

My next goal—to bring a little more Jen here, too. I think it's time. Miss Ive could use a break from all the tomfoolery.

Which is why I agreed to take myself very seriously and send a 15 second video clip of myself answering the question "I am_______," for @SarahRobinson's latest viral video shenanigan. That's right, she does shenanigans, like moi!

She's a wonderfully pushy girl, something you all know I can appreciate, and I'm posting about her, and all of you, today for two reasons:

1) I'm genuinely exhausted from this stunt and this is what's on the brain, so it's coming out here! I have learned how to edit and splice video now thanks to @SarahRobinson and @johnhaydon. See? Pushy!

2) I'm genuinely bowled over by how much "throwing all of my balls into the air" was the best thing I could have done with my life. Highly recommended.

Now, I have to sleep. . .

As we say in the Twitterverse,

G'night, Tweeps!

Running Mad

2009-02-12T07:53:00.003-05:00

(Pulled out my favorite running post, for all my new Twitter running buddies)

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 into 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 had 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.

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.

.

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. . .