Allergic to love

I kicked a cat this morning. Ready for this? I'll even say it again in efforts to produce some residue of guilt: I kicked a cat this morning. And I don't feel bad about it at all. Nope nothing. Please believe me when I say that I love most animals, and also that I pray my dear Auntie–to whom so generously feeds and shelters me–never reads this.

But this cat needs me so much. It's disgusting. After growing up with my beloved kitten for almost 12 years, I've become accustomed to a certain type of cat. Bubblegum was an independent woman. She ate when she wanted. Went out when she wanted. And pretty much just coexisted in the same house.

But now I live with a cat who must be fed from a can morning and night and let out and let in and–no matter how itchy and blood-shot your eyes become–must be held and petted and loved. He doesn't care. He has no opinion on the fact that you wake in the night to violent sneezing only to find him happily nestled at your feet. Or the reality that if you shut him out, your dreams will be quickly shattered by the sounds of him weeping outside your door.

Why does it make me so angry? Aren't we all just meowing for someone to love us? scratching outside someone's door at 2:00 in the morning, just so we can purr and claw them at the same time. Maybe this is why I'm bad at long-term relationships. Can't I just have a pretty man cat who doesn't need me too much and cuddles on my terms? What's the problem? I think I need to be kicked.

onlinehomesafety.com

I just told a man at willy's that I was "very rape-able." Allow me to put it into context. I always feel the need to chat up the people who make my burritos.
1. Because I used to make burritos professionally and understand the burn of hot taco grease.
2. Because I want to justify the fact that I am there several times a week, and therefore, I simply NEED the employees to know I am at least border-line normal.

So yadalee doo. I was exchanging a nice banter with this man. I said it must be very hot back there. and he said yes, it is. And I said you guys should name this burrito after me. not because i'm so great, but because I know a mean burrito. The hint of lime is key. And he said Damn. That is a lot of mace on your keychain. And i said

well, I'm VERY rape-able.

And immediatley I regretted it. Seriously, I don't mean it, Karma or wood. or whoever. And I felt like the whole restaurant cringed, and now I have another thing to add to my Most Regretted Things I've Said Outloud in 2009 List. AND I can't go to that Willy's for at least a week.

at least not on friday's. at least not at 4:00.

Christmas Forgiveness

My mema just told me that her WHOLE life, she was the only Hallie she knew...until that black woman, Halle Berry came along with her name. And she knows how that happened. she does. She can remember a family living down the street from hers when they were growing up–a black family. And they must have kindly remembered her name and told other black people. informed the whole community, you see.  And, you know, somehow or another her name got around to Halle Berry's parents. That's how that happened.

But I think all things considered, she's in very good spirits about it. It is Christmas after all.

ADDENDUM TO THE AFOREMENTIONED: Mema just reneged her story, saying that black family down the street did indeed have the last name of Berry. Of course that would make them–according to my dad–blackberries. 

Man v. Wild

Why do the people at Kinkos have to be as NOT HELPFUL as possible. I just had a man with a kinkos name-tag AND poncho refuse to use words in assisting me, resorting to a series of several points and grunts, and ending with direct avoidance of eye contact upon realizing I still needed his help. And inevitabely I somehow spent money NOT accomplishing anything I set out to do there. Smiles are free people! So are complete sentences. Hopefully he knows this now, seeing how I yelled those sentiments and dodged out of the store like a five years old kid. And also hopefully he didn't see the couple of pissy tears I shed in the parking lot.

On a lighter note, sometimes, across rooms, when people say the words "pretty cool" I think they have said my name, "Brittany Poole." I'm not sure if this is vanity or a just a worldly truth :) But it usually warrants a smile.

All your base are belong to us

ok. I know that as advertisers, we're constantly analyzing the psychology of niche markets. Trying to use relevant human truths that speak to consumers and manipulate their behavior into profit. I got it. But, with this knowledge, it still amazes me when they get in. When it works on me. Case and Point: Coca-Cola Classic.

Coke spends close to two billion dollars a year on advertising. And still I don't acredit that with my devout love for coke. If I want a coke and find myself at a Pepsi-affiliated restaurant, I get water. But it goes beyond that. When I think about coca-cola, I don't just think about delicious, bubblybrown soda. I think about summertime and first kisses and tree forts. Not because some instructor told me that's what coca-cola stood for, but because deep down I believe my mom when she says Coca-Cola Classic--above all sodas--is good for the soul. What a sucker! That's the very definition of branding. They win.

Hopefully I can one day brand a product like that. Maybe that's my new go-to headline "(Insert Product Name Here): Above all (genre of product)s is good for the soul." done. genius.

Oh and check out this virtual kiss from Arnau in Paris:


Watch live video from Arnaud from Paris on Justin.tv

Yeah. Let me know if you want his phone number. great.

Strategery

Sometimes I just get very sad for the English language and the places it's headed. That's nerdy, but I'm cool with it.

This is a postsecret I found on the website a few weeks ago. I didn't even skip a beat about her confession, because I was so appalled by her misspelling of the words "a lot." Hopefully this woman is better at shoplifting that she is teaching high school (also two words). And if you didn't catch that little faux pas, maybe she was your english teacher...

Metaphors yea yea

I was thinking about the birthing metaphor I hinted at in the last post and was reminded of a creative director I once heard speaking on the dangers of this profession. He claimed that, more often then not, most creatives fall into the trap of either alcoholism, depression, or another addiction at some point in their career. And he accredited most of these occurrences to the stress that follows after the completion of a creative project, in what he called the “Postpartum disorder” of the creative process.

As a writer and creative, the metaphor of postpartum disorder is somewhat beautiful and accurate to me (as most metaphors are). I love the image of this creative idea growing in your belly, and for just a little while, no one else knowing. An intimate first trimester, mother and child. Then you tell your mom. A few friends. And soon its appetite mimics your own and your blood swims through its veins. Yet despite your best descriptions, no one understands, no one knows this thing like you do. Growing from simple thought to squooshy blob and always needing you—Its nurturer. Then later, when everyone can tell, they smile and touch your belly and ask you questions about the due date and what you will call it if it’s a girl. But you’re not really ready for their germy hands to have this. It will be perfect and it will be a doctor and it will make grandchildren. Just leave us alone until it's time.

Fourteen hours later, sweat-drenched and medicated, you hold it. Yet precious and tangible as it may be, even with the faint resemblance of your nose and crooked ears, it’s no longer really yours. It’s an entity. No longer inside of you, now a being to be sent out into the world. To be relished and adored. To be compared to and judged. To be loved unconditionally by some (usually your family members) and stood up on dates by others. Picked on in seventh grade for its small boobs. And in the end, you will always love this little project. You will feel pride in its every achievement and hurt for its every letdown. But you will always ache for the time when it was just mother and idea. Its blood pumping in sync with yours, consuming your conscious and unconscious thought, awakening you in the night with each developing kick.

So yes, I do acknowledge the reality of depression swooping into my life as a creative personality; yet I much more fear a life were I couldn’t be creative at all. I guess my only option to balance this threat of “postpartum disorder" is to strive for opportunities to always be glowing and pregnant with ideas--advertising or not. And to never cradle one finished project too long. And also to remember that you’re not really supposed to drink when you’re pregnant…