There’s nothing I love more than a good story that leaves me emotionally wrecked and questioning my life choices. It could be that I’m a masochist, but more likely, that I’m an artist – always seeking a cathartic experience that somehow makes me feel five pounds lighter. And truly nothing gets the mind’s gears turning and waterworks flowing like a masterfully crafted score articulated by actors who just “get it.”
Lately, I find myself wanting for simpler times, for the days of soap operas dominating daytime tv, and the drama being interrupted by commercials selling things, not theories. See, just as evil twins and medically confusing comas have gone out of fashion, so has the acceptance of soap being soap. No, we need it to be so much more. What does the soap say about us? What do we say about ourselves?
I must applaud today’s execs for transforming the world of advertising as we know it. It’s really brilliant when you think about it. Companies discovered how to touch their audiences in a way that leaves the consumer feeling personally invested in a product. And how do they do it? By preying on vulnerable victims — oops I mean women. Beauty revolutions, body acceptance programs, and gender equality platforms means soap advances from a bar of fatty acids into the self-hug you didn’t know you needed. These new ads are magnifying the consumer’s insecurities in an attempt to win hearts while emptying pockets.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
As a child, Sundays meant three things: annoying my sister, Mom’s pasta with meat sauce, and going to Church. Church was a non-negotiable. We all had to go, every Sunday — one of the joys of having a Roman Catholic Italian family. I often say attending mass is some of the best discipline a child can receive. I think a part of me even enjoyed it, since as I sang in the children’s choir and attended youth group meetings every week.
Whew. Another summer done. I don’t know about you (I’m not asking), but it’s my least favorite season. Between the mosquito bites and humidity, I’m not sure which is more uncomfortable. And that’s not even factoring in the slew of Facebook wedding photos that serve as a constant reminder of the life I’m not living.
Fall has always been my favorite. September is magical. It also happens to be the month I was born. (You’re welcome world) So while I won’t be posting engagement photos or baby portraits, I’m turning 26 on the 26th — so 26 selfies are probably in order. (Again, you’re welcome world) It’s a time to celebrate not just my birth, but all the choices I’ve made in the last 25 years. To reflect on what I have and what I still want — and what I hope for in the next year of my life.
I always find it somewhat humorous when Baby-Boomers think they understand Millennials. They know as much about being young in today’s world, as I know about France after drinking a $12 bottle of Bordeaux. And yet, wisdom must be delivered, even though, frankly, we’re not receiving it.
Poor Barbie. Girl just can’t catch a break. On again, off again with Ken, hopping around from job to job, and now, public scrutiny over whether she’s a good role model to young girls. She should just get in that sassy pink convertible and leave all the haters behind, except there’s one thing holding her back…she’s an inanimate object!
Ah yes, who doesn’t love a good poll? Another one has been taken, revealing a less than shocking result. “Obamacare support hits record low.” (read article here) It’s no surprise then, that disapproval of Obamacare will lead to disapproval of Obama.
Another school shooting. Damn. Everytime the “Breaking News” banner comes across my television screen I cringe, hoping it’s not as bad as the picture my colorful mind has painted up. This one in New Mexico. They say sun provides people with vitamin D, essential in creating happy people, but even warm weather climates are subject to tragedies. Shootings amongst civilians have been popping up all over the country, so gun culture, background, and wealth doesn’t make anyone more or less privy to these incidences.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
Ah yes, New Year’s Eve is back with a vengeance. Thanksgiving wooed us, Christmas whispered sweet nothings in our ear, and then New Year’s Eve slaps us across the face with the stinging reality that another year has gone by and you’re not nearly as successful as you’d hoped to be. In 2013, you wished to be married, planned on acquiring wealth, and resolved to get washboard abs. But alas, verbal contracts have always failed you, just as every new holiday resolution does. And yet, like an ignorant child, we find ourselves looking back fondly on the year that crushed us, excited for more in the coming one. We choose to dull this painful truth, though, with a “cup of kindness” that more closely resembles a vat of cheap bubbly.