Tea with T.

Beauty is as Beauty Does.

My teenage daughter is enrolled in a Women’s Health class at our local community college and for a recent assignment had to write about beauty.  I do not know what the requirements of the paper were, but I did get to read the response, since I’m the one that pulls the papers off the family printer (it’s one of the small perks of being the grown-up).  While I do not know the What & Why of the paper, I loved the gist of it… what makes someone beautiful.

The paper spoke of how people use the word “Beautiful” for many things found in nature, art and a multitude of other nouns, and how there are multiple synonyms for what’s being described and how they can apply to all of our senses.  My girl then pointed out that words like “skinny, thin, flawless, tan, blonde” are not synonymous with beauty and that many of the descriptive words people use when describing who they consider to be “beautiful people” apply only to what is seen.  My daughter went on to say that to her, beautiful has very little to do with what she sees and that if she were “blind from birth” she would have the same criteria she does now, things like: 

Cooties, Liars and Snitches

When I was a kid there were a handful of crimes that made you a pariah on the playground: having cooties; being an Indian Giver (not PC now, but that’s what we called it back-in-the-day); snitching; lying; and being two-faced.  It was the Five Fingers of Friendship Death upon you if you possessed any of those qualities.  Outside of my epic lie of “I’m a twin” when I was a preteen, I was only accused of the cooties thing once and it turned out to be pink eye.  So, I remained relatively unscathed throughout the days of my childhood and managed to have my fair share of friends (many I still have today).

 

In June I have the dubious honor of turning 50, and it has been one of life’s more interesting truths to see that a number of people carry the above-mentioned qualities with them right into adulthood making them not necessarily friend-worthy.  We refer to grown-ups with these traits as being “without character”.  Or famous, if they possess two or more such qualities (reality TV feeds off of it and is, apparently, paparazzi catnip) and it seems that most of their “friends” are paid to be in their sordid circle.

 

Let’s break it down in playground terms, shall we? 

Telenovela Lives.

There are some people who live their lives as though they’re starring in their own telenovela.  For the uninitiated, a telenovela is a tv soap opera usually known for outrageously dramatic storylines and BIG performances (I’d say stage chewing and hammy, but you never know whose auntie might be in one).  The thing is, if you’re going to live your life like that?  It gives me license to watch.  And review.

I have a running list of characters I interact with that allow me to constantly use the phrase that is taped to my computer monitor: “I cannot make this crap up.”  And I can’t.  These folks are always up to their elbows in drama of their own scripting, and when I re-tell the tale -- because, bless your cotton-pickin’ little soul for thinking your life is your own -- I WILL re-tell the tale.  Often.  And when I do?  People shake their heads and stare at me in disbelief, and I assure them: “I cannot make this crap up.”

For example, there’s the woman who casually sauntered into an established Leave it to Beaver kind of family and summarily tore it asunder with her feminine wiles and had the temerity to be upset when Mrs. Cleaver gave her the title of Adulteress (funny that she got upset over that one name, because June alternated between Other Woman, Mistress and few other terribly colorful, awfully creative made up ones that are waaay more suited for my late night comedy set* than Tea with T.).  Throughout the entire sordid ordeal, Mrs. Cleaver had been very quiet, a true lady. So, when Mrs. (she was married at the time) Hinged Panties (MY name, not June’s) got herself in a wad upon finding out that the orphaned Cleaver kids called her by the scarlet letter name in their own broken home?  Well, well.  Totally, telenovela.  Right?

Some storylines are rehashed so often, that I have to wonder why the shortage of good material for the telenovela lives.  Seriously, how many times must I watch as powerful leading men fall in love with their sparkly lil’ nubile secretaries, only to discover down the line that it was only lust?  And luster.  And that their wallets are missing.

In my computer files, I have a whole television sitcom I want to write on the wealthy family who for 30 years hired & fired housekeepers seemingly out of Central Casting.  There was Jack who quietly drained the mansion’s wine cellar of top shelf wines (his employers weren’t really drinkers. But he was); sweet, single Dana who hid her entire pregnancy with the married pastor of her church; Edwin who used to work for America’s only “royal” family and revealed all of their household secrets (and took a whole new household’s with him when he left); Marny & Kino the couple who chased after noisy 9pm pool guests with a butcher knife… oh, the episodes that wrote themselves.  Ones best performed before a live audience.

One story, brewing now, has me completely captivated because I’m pretty sure I know how it’s going to end.  Not well.  Still, I sit back and watch, hoping that the characters will not turn out to be as cliché as they’re shaping up to be, but knowing that in the end – all that will be left is lipstick stains and sawdust in the glitter.  Telenovelas can be a bit like opera, a high body count when all is said and done.  But, man – the costumes and high notes were totally worth sitting through.

The way I see it, it’s not gossip when I’m the only one being entertained by these telenovela lives.  After all, I don’t go around spreading your tales and naming names in coffee shops and over aperitifs.  But, I am a storyteller.  And at some point, tales must be told.  Maybe in composite form or steeped for years (and possibly putting a gnarly red fright wig on all Adulteresses), but people!  People!  Your telenovela storylines are just too good to keep to myself.  You go ahead and live it, I’ll watch. Just know, I’m taking notes.  Viva La Vida, baby.

 

* or tell all book

 

The Simon Cowell of Mothers.

I am … the Simon Cowell of Mothers.  Oh, it’s not a name that I came up with, but the nickname my daughter bestowed upon me when she was about 12 years old.  It turns out that it was, and this may surprise you, a compliment.  Sort of.

 

See, I was NOT the mommy who stood in the back of the classroom glowing with pride at the kindergarten autumn presentation where the little darlings reenacted a Thanksgiving feast made entirely out of construction paper (costumes and all).  To this day, the rustling of papers and staples still gives me the heebie-jeebies and totally ruined the appeal of those red and green paper chains that signify holiday cheer everywhere you go.

 

No, I have never thought that every little thing that every single child did was A-dor-able.  Not even my own.  I had a relative who could and would sit for hours as her daughter and friends did Living Room Improv, and when visiting their house I would find any excuse to leave the room and keep myself busy.  Seriously, I once hid in their powder room, decalcifying the valves behind the commode.  It was my version of the old arm-gnawing Coyote Ugly escape (look it up in the Urban Dictionary, if you must).  Sure there’s no cover charge like there is at the Comedy Store, but the lack of a two-drink minimum is criminal.  You’re 9 years old.  There’s only so much funny to be mined from your limited experience.  That and three-quarters of your stand-up routine consists of the words “like” and “you know” – Oh, pleasepleaseplease grow out of that.  Trust me, Babycakes, a decade later?  Your listening audience is going to thank you.

 

I’m not heartless.  I realize that my children may someday spend countless hours on a therapist’s sofa, regaling their counselor with colorful stories (no seriously, it will be entertaining) of their wacky respective childhoods. They’ll spew forth about the numerous hours I spent nagging them to grow up and be good, responsible citizens.  My daughter will tell how I once met her at the front door after school and traded her a pencil for a sponge, doing her elementary school homework (sorry Mrs. McBride), while she scrubbed the bathroom.  Telling her that if she didn’t use her brains, she’d have to depend on brawn to earn a living someday (despite the heartache, from that day forward she never complained about having to do homework again).  Yup, my kids will have lots of stories about what kind of parent I was and what kind I wasn’t, but what they won’t do (and I guaran-dang-tee you this) is question their true gifts.

 

Darwin said “Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge.”  You don’t have to agree with the man’s concept of what was, what will be and where it came from… but that right there, is some wicked common sense.  There is something called the Dunning-Kruger Effect that came out of Cornell University where studies were done that apparently showed that for a given skill, incompetent people will

 

• Tend to overestimate their level of skill
• Fail to recognize genuine skill in others
• Fail to recognize the extremity of their inadequacy
• Recognize and acknowledge their own previous lack of skill, if they can be trained to substantially improve.

 

Then in follow up studies, they found that people with actual true ability tended to underestimate their relative competence.  Another study from the same university found that people’s views of themselves shifted when “influenced by external cues.”  Am I the only person on the planet who elicits a loud and hearty, “Duh!” upon reading the results of some this stuff?

 

Building someone’s self-esteem is key to having them go out into the real world and utilize their talents.  If you have some youngsters at home, might I suggest a visit to www.askdrsears.com to read about their 12 Ways to Help Your Child Build Self-Confidence?  This husband/wife doctor/nurse team knows of what they speak, raising eight children themselves and having coached millions through their 40+ pediatric books, articles and media appearance.  But as they themselves say, “You don’t need a degree in psychology to raise a confident child.”

 

No matter what age you’re dealing with, there are a few key elements to building someone up, so they have a chance to be the best that they can be (thank you LiveStrong.com):

 

Don’t make personal verbal attacks

Even if you are clever in your ability to take a whack at something you don’t like, make a concentrated effort not to criticize.  Instead of calling someone lazy (SO not helpful), communicate your disappointment at what didn’t get done and then offer a smidge of compassion.  “Not keeping your room clean upsets me, even though I know you have a busy schedule – you’ve really got to make an effort.”

 

Give praise, but give it genuinely

No, really.  People, no matter their age, have pretty decent Crap Detectors and they will know if you’re just handing them a “Participant Ribbon” or not.  A job well done is deserving of heaping helpings of applause and accolades.  Something done half-heartedly… oh, don’t get me started.

 

Don’t ignore and rebuff

People (kids, too) need to know that their thoughts and opinions matter.  Carve time out of your schedule to focus, at the dinner table, before a meeting, whenever your attention is needed.  Communication and undivided attention go a long way to build self worth.

 

Let ‘em fall

You may not like it, but people need to make mistakes, suffer loss and learn to deal with the cards they’ve been dealt.  Tough love?  You betcha, but growth is painful and when someone discovers their strength and ability to be better at something they work at, up goes their self-confidence and understanding that it’s okay to make mistakes.  I didn’t make that up.  The brilliant Daniel Meier, assistant professor Elementary Education at SFSU said so.  And trust me, it applies to AARP members, too.

 

Be a positive example

Exhibit self-confidence of your own (do NOT put yourself down, avoid getting all snarkifed when crap happens) and those around you learn to mirror your responses.

 

This week, my daughter had to give a speech for a college class and in it she spoke about me being the Simon Cowell of Mothers (I’m not proud, people – just reporting the truth).  She openly told her classmates that when her mom told her that she had a talent for something, there was weight behind it and it must have really meant something.  In other words, there wasn’t an industrial high-velocity fan blowing up her skirt (my words, not hers).

 

Paula Abdul, reportedly said of Simon Cowell that even “his imaginary friends probably never wanted to play with him.”  A lot of people see him as a meanie.  Yes, but this is also a man who, as a judicator, said, “The object of (this) competition is not to be mean to the losers, but to find a winner.  The process makes you mean because you get frustrated.”

 

By calling me the Simon Cowell of Mothers, my daughter wasn’t saying that I was mean.  She was saying that Mom wouldn’t mislead her to do anything that would elicit eye-rolling, watch-watching, “That’s nice, dear” commentary.  She was saying that Mom asked for honest self-evaluation, a spotlight on the strong points, talents and, no matter how difficult… the deficits.  She grew up with a Mom who said to use and do whatever it took to build upon the gifts you were given and spackle up whatever holes you do have to make you stronger.  This mean Mom has always said do what you love, love what you do and build upon your Gott in Himmel given gifts to make the world a better place -- and I don’t know if you noticed, but the world is a lot more Simon Cowell than I could ever be.

 

“Judge a tree from its fruit, not from its leaves.” – Euripides

My, what big ears you have!

Never having seriously considered plastic surgery before, it has been on my mind a lot these days.  Not for the typical reasons either.  See, I’ve actually been thinking about asking a doctor if it is possible to give me pointed ears like Mr. Spock.  Why?  Because right away people will see me and think, “Hmmm… why, she looks a sensible woman” and maybe then they’d stop saying highly illogical, completely irrational things around me.

 

There are many examples I could give of the straight-up wacky things that fall out of people’s mouths, but today the one that is front and center in my mind is my bank’s insistence on charging me an overdraft fee for insufficient funds.  Uhm, hello?  Insufficient means NOT sufficient.  Parlezvous?  There is no money in the account, so you putting that little minus sign next to each overdraft fee isn’t helping any.  In fact, this may come as a shock to you, Banker-Boy, but it is having the exact opposite effect on my account.  See, each time you dink me with one of those fees, it adds up, making the funds even more insufficient than they already were when we started this crazy game called life!  Really, these people push numbers around for a living.  You’d think they could figure that out. 

The added plus to having pointed ears would mean I wouldn’t have to explain my emotionally detached gaze when someone tells me they’ve recently cut back on their anti-anxiety medication but can’t understand why they’re feeling terribly nervous and experiencing an unexplained sense of foreboding.  I’m just being reasonable, not heartless, when I say that anti-anything means going in the opposite direction of that thing you just said out loud.  Put that rocket science manual back in the glovebox, Chicken Little, and listen to the sound of your own voice.

 

Then, there are my sweet-faced piano students who might benefit from a visual cue when it comes to my seemingly mysterious, mad skillz of logic and reason.  The little darlings sometimes leave their music folders behind from one lesson to the next and when I question whether or not they’ve practiced the material given to them the week before, they boldly look me right in the eye and insist that they most certainly did.  See, if they saw a set of Vulcan ears on the sides of my head they might view those babies as concrete evidence of some serious common sense in the woman they are talking to.  The sight of them might even cause them to think before they speak, making anything they say slightly more sensible (funny how that works). 

Now that I think about it, keeping my hair long enough to cover the ears would probably serve me well, too.  That way I could reveal the ears when I’m feeling particularly smart and composed, but tuck ‘em right back in when emotions kick in and I’m suddenly all Captain Kirk-like – you know, irrational and illogical, letting my heart get involved.  Don’t look so surprised, it happens.  There was an episode of Star Trek (the TV show, not the movies, you youngsters) where James called Spock an “overgrown Jack Rabbit” and an “elf with a hyperactive thyroid” – there are so many times where I’m much more that person with the machine gun mouth than the calm, cool and collected “computerized half-breed” (also a Kirk-ism).

 

No.  Plastic surgery isn’t an option.  At least, not yet.  Instead, I think I’m going to try and boldly go where only brave women have gone before.  Allowing the lines of time to settle into their rightful places to show the face of one who chooses to learn from life’s enterprise.  Exploring strange, new-to-me worlds (I’m talking to you Apple, Inc.), new lives and occasionally not-so civilization.  Surely a wise old face will announce to the world (or at least the room) that I’m not to be trifled with (Tribbled, maybe). 

Oh, and if I get to laugh about it all at the end of my day?  Well, that’s just the logical bonus.  You people keep saying things that crack me up and as long as that keeps happening, I have high hopes that I will be a wise old woman who will “live long and prosper” (which will probably make my bank very happy, too).

Everything old is new again. On second viewing.

 

Funny how time and experience will change your impression of a thing.

 

For example, the first time I watched the movie “Mommy Dearest” I thought to myself, “What a lunatic this woman is.”  Then, I got married and had children of my own.   With my patience worn down to the size of a BB and the sleep pattern of a prisoner-of-war I watched the movie again and thought, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, that poor woman.”  My opinions on love, marriage and family have tumbled around long enough in the spin cycle of my brain to reveal LOTS of angles I never thought I’d see before.

 

Over the long 4^th of July weekend I curled up on the sofa to watch a batch of romantic movies and had similar reactions to each.  Back in 1995 when I first viewed The Bridges of Madison County, I simply did not get it.  A decade and a half later, I don’t mind telling you the arrow of the storyline pierced my heart.  The same was true of the other films, where everything seemed to be so much more convoluted and complicated in matters of the heart.

 

While I chalk some of this new perspective on my old eyes, I also wonder if part of the problem might be that my formative years gave me a mixed bag of role models when it came to love.  Since my childhood household was a glaring Waring blender of “Who, How and What Not to Be”, my first impression of what I thought true love should be, came from the black & white Zenith television images of Rob and Laura Petrie.  Ah, the Dick Van Dyke Show!  From it, I learned that husbands were supposed to be fun-loving, bumbling guys with a heart of gold and that the wives main task was to simply be cute (Capri pants mandatory).  Added to my mix of romance role models was a dash of Carol Brady, a sprinkling of Samantha Stephens (though I admit I identified more with her dark-haired, slightly wicked, cousin Serena) and a pinch of Nanny and the Professor (academic elbow patches still make me woozy).  The message of love, over and over in syndication again, was this: all issues could all be worked out in neat and tidy 30 minute intervals.  As a bonus, sometimes relationship problems were uproariously funny – who wouldn’t want a lifetime of that?

 

Pffft.

 

Love was cut and dry and black and white to my young, naïve brain… but, eventually things twisted into slightly more knotty situations as age settled into my bones and wisdom in my soul.  My opinion on all relationships has changed, now that I view them with different, older eyes.  It’s as though shades of gray require time, in order to be revealed.

 

If you have some suggestions, I’m looking to start another movie and book list, so that when the next long weekend presents itself, I have the chance to re-visit old themes and see what’s new.  They tell me that everything old is new again, so why not me and my perspective?  To quote Curly from City Slickers, “The day ain’t over yet.”  Good thing.  I apparently still have a lot to learn.

 

“The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love.” Margaret Atwood

Superbowl XLIVADvertising

Another Superbowl has come to a close and this year the game was as exciting as the commercials (and I can’t always say that).  Those Colts, led by Peyton Manning (who connects footballs to teammates as if by laser beam) showed the world WHY they were worthy of their appearance at the Superbowl … but, I know that the Saints winning gives the folks of New Orleans some pep back in their step and I was cheering for them.

 

While the rest of the world happily plays “Monday Morning Quarterback” going over each and every interception, missed ball (there were three that had me up and out of my seat screaming at the screen) and completions I spend my time re-playing the ads in my mind.  Most of my childhood was spent absorbing all of the ginormous consumerism generated by television, so it’s only natural that the adult me anxiously awaits the winter harvest of commercials that Madison Avenue offers during the Superbowl.  The football action is a happy bonus for me, especially when it’s as well-played as this 2010 game was, but those commercials are strangely addictive.

 

The overall strategy of advertising is two-fold as companies want you to a) buy their product(s) or b) talk about them so they’re in your head when you make purchasing decisions down the line.  Here’s how the points stack up for them from my armchair’s view --

 

Anheuser-Busch had a lot of field time with the most ads overall, but running down the commercial clock doesn’t always add up to points on the board or at the cash register, but they did make me laugh out loud a few times.

 

Career Builder and Dockers made it into the end zone a couple of times, but only because of the weird solidarity it provided my husband as the ads showed other men who have no problem roaming the world in their skiivies.  The fellows in these ads looked as happy as my spouse does on stroll to the end of our sidewalk clad only in a t-shirt and his men’s medium 100% cotton boxers.  Thanks to these multiple million dollar no-pants dancer spots, I concede.  Apparently, it’s not as odd as I’ve always believed.

 

Google scored a perfect pre-Valentines Day romantic touchdown with its powerful use of words (waaaay less than 140 characters, I might add) as we watched romance bloom and grow before our very eyes in less than 30 seconds.

 

Oh, and speaking of hearts, that young man who spoke hypnotically about heart disease in women caused some serious temporary tachycardia in my household.  I’m just sayin’.

 

Betty White and Abe Vigoda being tackled all in the name of Snickers as a snack deserve some sort of special award for being darn good sports.  That Abe Vigoda looked mighty good for a guy who has probably spent decades quoting Mark Twain’s “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated” after People made the mistake of reporting his death in 1982 (and wimpy retractions do no good, people).

 

Speaking of good sports, somebody kiss Stevie Wonder for me for that Punch Game Volkswagen ad.

 

Doritos gets a hug, too for letting “Everyman U.S.A.” create their ads – my new favorite tagline belongs to that kid who was all business with his, “Don’t touch my mama.  Don’t touch my Doritos.”  May it live down in history next to Yo Quiero Taco Bell and Where’s the Beef?

 

The most offensive line of the night, in my opinion, was pulled by the Go Daddy team.  I love me some Danica Patrick for being one of America’s strongest, sassiest women … but really?  Being petite (5’2”) is no excuse to go that low.  Girl ought to raise that bar and be a better role model.  Just be fast, Dani.  Not cheap.

 

As for the overall MVP (Most Valuable Placement) of Advertising, I’d have to give the award to those E*Trade babies.  Funny, quotable (the word milkaholic is going to float around for awhile, I’m sure) and memorable … like a decent chunk of chocolate that’s not too sweet and leaves a pleasant taste behind.

 

Superbowl XLIV is over and only 360+ days before the next bumper crop of commercials comes to light.  Until then, I’m looking forward to seeing what the shelf-life will be of this particular batch of ads and hearing from other Monday Morning Quarterbacks as they weigh in on their picks.

Superbowl XLIVADvertising

Another Superbowl has come to a close and this year the game was as exciting as the commercials (and I can’t always say that).  Those Colts, led by Peyton Manning (who connects footballs to teammates as if by laser beam) showed the world WHY they were worthy of their appearance at the Superbowl … but, I know that the Saints winning gives the folks of New Orleans some pep back in their step and I was cheering for them.

 

While the rest of the world happily plays “Monday Morning Quarterback” going over each and every interception, missed ball (there were three that had me up and out of my seat screaming at the screen) and completions I spend my time re-playing the ads in my mind.  Most of my childhood was spent absorbing all of the ginormous consumerism generated by television, so it’s only natural that the adult me anxiously awaits the winter harvest of commercials that Madison Avenue offers during the Superbowl.  The football action is a happy bonus for me, especially when it’s as well-played as this 2010 game was, but those commercials are strangely addictive.

 

The overall strategy of advertising is two-fold as companies want you to a) buy their product(s) or b) talk about them so they’re in your head when you make purchasing decisions down the line.  Here’s how the points stack up for them from my armchair’s view --

 

Anheuser-Busch had a lot of field time with the most ads overall, but running down the commercial clock doesn’t always add up to points on the board or at the cash register, but they did make me laugh out loud a few times.

 

Career Builder and Dockers made it into the end zone a couple of times, but only because of the weird solidarity it provided my husband as the ads showed other men who have no problem roaming the world in their skiivies.  The fellows in these ads looked as happy as my spouse does on stroll to the end of our sidewalk clad only in a t-shirt and his men’s medium 100% cotton boxers.  Thanks to these multiple million dollar no-pants dancer spots, I concede.  Apparently, it’s not as odd as I’ve always believed.

 

Google scored a perfect pre-Valentines Day romantic touchdown with its powerful use of words (waaaay less than 140 characters, I might add) as we watched romance bloom and grow before our very eyes in less than 30 seconds.

 

Oh, and speaking of hearts, that young man who spoke hypnotically about heart disease in women caused some serious temporary tachycardia in my household.  I’m just sayin’.

 

Betty White and Abe Vigoda being tackled all in the name of Snickers as a snack deserve some sort of special award for being darn good sports.  That Abe Vigoda looked mighty good for a guy who has probably spent decades quoting Mark Twain’s “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated” after People made the mistake of reporting his death in 1982 (and wimpy retractions do no good, people).

 

Speaking of good sports, somebody kiss Stevie Wonder for me for that Punch Game Volkswagen ad.

 

Doritos gets a hug, too for letting “Everyman U.S.A.” create their ads – my new favorite tagline belongs to that kid who was all business with his, “Don’t touch my mama.  Don’t touch my Doritos.”  May it live down in history next to Yo Quiero Taco Bell and Where’s the Beef?

 

The most offensive line of the night, in my opinion, was pulled by the Go Daddy team.  I love me some Danica Patrick for being one of America’s strongest, sassiest women … but really?  Being petite (5’2”) is no excuse to go that low.  Girl ought to raise that bar and be a better role model.  Just be fast, Dani.  Not cheap.

 

As for the overall MVP (Most Valuable Placement) of Advertising, I’d have to give the award to those E*Trade babies.  Funny, quotable (the word milkaholic is going to float around for awhile, I’m sure) and memorable … like a decent chunk of chocolate that’s not too sweet and leaves a pleasant taste behind.

 

Superbowl XLIV is over and only 360+ days before the next bumper crop of commercials comes to light.  Until then, I’m looking forward to seeing what the shelf-life will be of this particular batch of ads and hearing from other Monday Morning Quarterbacks as they weigh in on their picks.

Superbowl XLIVADvertising

Another Superbowl has come to a close and this year the game was as exciting as the commercials (and I can’t always say that).  Those Colts, led by Peyton Manning (who connects footballs to teammates as if by laser beam) showed the world WHY they were worthy of their appearance at the Superbowl … but, I know that the Saints winning gives the folks of New Orleans some pep back in their step and I was cheering for them.

 

While the rest of the world happily plays “Monday Morning Quarterback” going over each and every interception, missed ball (there were three that had me up and out of my seat screaming at the screen) and completions I spend my time re-playing the ads in my mind.  Most of my childhood was spent absorbing all of the ginormous consumerism generated by television, so it’s only natural that the adult me anxiously awaits the winter harvest of commercials that Madison Avenue offers during the Superbowl.  The football action is a happy bonus for me, especially when it’s as well-played as this 2010 game was, but those commercials are strangely addictive.

 

The overall strategy of advertising is two-fold as companies want you to a) buy their product(s) or b) talk about them so they’re in your head when you make purchasing decisions down the line.  Here’s how the points stack up for them from my armchair’s view --

 

Anheuser-Busch had a lot of field time with the most ads overall, but running down the commercial clock doesn’t always add up to points on the board or at the cash register, but they did make me laugh out loud a few times.

 

Career Builder and Dockers made it into the end zone a couple of times, but only because of the weird solidarity it provided my husband as the ads showed other men who have no problem roaming the world in their skiivies.  The fellows in these ads looked as happy as my spouse does on stroll to the end of our sidewalk clad only in a t-shirt and his men’s medium 100% cotton boxers.  Thanks to these multiple million dollar no-pants dancer spots, I concede.  Apparently, it’s not as odd as I’ve always believed.

 

Google scored a perfect pre-Valentines Day romantic touchdown with its powerful use of words (waaaay less than 140 characters, I might add) as we watched romance bloom and grow before our very eyes in less than 30 seconds.

 

Oh, and speaking of hearts, that young man who spoke hypnotically about heart disease in women caused some serious temporary tachycardia in my household.  I’m just sayin’.

 

Betty White and Abe Vigoda being tackled all in the name of Snickers as a snack deserve some sort of special award for being darn good sports.  That Abe Vigoda looked mighty good for a guy who has probably spent decades quoting Mark Twain’s “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated” after People made the mistake of reporting his death in 1982 (and wimpy retractions do no good, people).

 

Speaking of good sports, somebody kiss Stevie Wonder for me for that Punch Game Volkswagen ad.

 

Doritos gets a hug, too for letting “Everyman U.S.A.” create their ads – my new favorite tagline belongs to that kid who was all business with his, “Don’t touch my mama.  Don’t touch my Doritos.”  May it live down in history next to Yo Quiero Taco Bell and Where’s the Beef?

 

The most offensive line of the night, in my opinion, was pulled by the Go Daddy team.  I love me some Danica Patrick for being one of America’s strongest, sassiest women … but really?  Being petite (5’2”) is no excuse to go that low.  Girl ought to raise that bar and be a better role model.  Just be fast, Dani.  Not cheap.

 

As for the overall MVP (Most Valuable Placement) of Advertising, I’d have to give the award to those E*Trade babies.  Funny, quotable (the word milkaholic is going to float around for awhile, I’m sure) and memorable … like a decent chunk of chocolate that’s not too sweet and leaves a pleasant taste behind.

 

Superbowl XLIV is over and only 360+ days before the next bumper crop of commercials comes to light.  Until then, I’m looking forward to seeing what the shelf-life will be of this particular batch of ads and hearing from other Monday Morning Quarterbacks as they weigh in on their picks.

Reality is overrated and underwritten.

Reality shows.  I’m not a big fan of them, but I can totally appreciate how they came to be.  With so many “characters” walking around – and it seems like the most colorful ones out there I am related to or acquainted with – snippets of dialogue and watch-worthy situations are everywhere.  But, it’s as though reality TV got the phrase about bad children all wrong and that they should be seen and heard, apparently around the clock on every channel known to man.

 

As it is, I see plenty of people that seem to prove the theory that reality show producers are trying shove down our throats (or eyeballs).  I just don’t know if they should all have their network to hold hostage with their antics.

 

Over Winter Break, my daughter and I sat in the lovely College of the Canyons theatre anxiously awaiting the annual performance of The Nutcracker.  A delightful holiday treat for us, we couldn’t wait to hear the beautiful, soaring music of Tchaikovsky and watch the performances of the multi-talented ballerinas of Santa Clarita Ballet, one my daughter’s best friend who had a lead role this year.  To pass the time until the curtain went up, I was enjoying glancing around at all of the other theatre patrons, most of them dressed in their Christmas finery.  Spirits were high as girls from 1 to 92 decked the auditorium halls in taffeta, silk, satin and crystal beading and almost every man they brought with them seemed to sport a holiday tie or a festive seasonal sweater.  One grandpa, festooned (truly the only word to describe his multi-colored fabric wonder) in cheerful knitwear, entered our row, four seats over, took one look at the floor and loudly harumphed, “Looks like somebody lost something!”  His wife, daughter and son-in-law nervously began looking around, locating their own items, with various muttered remarks of confusion.  Finally, frustrated at finding nothing, his daughter asked, “Lost WHAT, Dad?”.  Grandpop roared aloud for the entire balcony to hear, “Their LUNCH!  Bwah-ha-ha! Looks like somebody threw up all over that there floor!”  Smiling impishly, knowing that it was only years of scuff marks beneath his feet, the man sat down.  Obviously happy with his keen super power to reduce holiday cheer to germ phobic fear as mothers collectively began pulling pumpkin and cranberry scented hand sanitzers out of purses.

 

Yes, there are folks far and wide that we can all point a finger at (rude, though it may be) and say, “You know?  You should be on TV!”  But, I’m not so sure that a camera pointed on ANYone 24 hours-a-day/7 days-a-week is interesting or entertaining.  Sure, creative editing and wily producers making storyline < ahem! > “suggestions” to every Vom, Ick & Scary (those are the names of those Jersey Shore kids, right?) who end up on television each season makes for bizarrely fascinating armchair train wreck viewing, but I still have a love of all things written.  In my opinion, today’s reality shows cannot hold up to some of the greatest situation comedies and dramas throughout TV history, there’s just no way. 

 

Recently I had the great privilege of listening to Bob Mills speak.  Mr. Mills was one of the gag writers for Bob Hope for over 20 years and a fabulous example of how writers serve the greater good in the world of entertainment.  Bob Hope was a FUNNY man (one of the greatest), but working with some of Hollywood’s most talented writers he was even FUNNIER than he might have been flying by the seat of his plaid golfer’s pants (although sight gags and physical comedy are good, too – Chevy Chase, you rule, even when nothing comes out of your mouth).

 

What makes television writers so wonderful -- even though so many, sadly, are unemployed at the moment (thanks to reality television) -- is their gift of judiciously transferring what they see and hear in their private lives to their scriptwriting.  TV writers are like awesome undercover spies, without messy gunfire or hidden Swiss bank accounts (which they might actually like).  They sit, patiently watching and waiting in the wings of family gatherings and at public events, collecting bits of conversations and situations that ultimately make their way into the shows they work on.  A little bit of this person + a little bit of that person in this or that situation = drama/comedy gold.  \

 

I have certainly found it to be true that if you wait long enough, people all around you will provide little nuggets to tuck away to be used later.  It’s one reason I became a storyteller long ago – I’m surrounded by and related to people who don’t even know they are comedy and (way more than a little share of) drama gold.  So much so, that I have a sign above my computer monitor that says, “I cannot make this crap up.”  Someday, when Hollywood (and America) decides that the average bear has become unbearable to watch on every channel 8,760 hours a year … I wanna be one of their writers, because all around me people just keep doing things that need to be heard … and not seen, unless coming out the mouth of card-carrying members of an actors union.  Central Casting, if you’re listening, I already have character profiles – you can meet them if you want -- just don’t bring a camera.