Organic Soup and Botox (or My Unpaid Job as an Ad Critic)

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Campbells Soup

(This is just an image of the ad video. To watch the actual video, click on the link in the text below.)


If there’s another me in a parallel universe, I suspect she produces television ads, because one of my favorite pastimes in this universe is critiquing ads. Usually there are more ads I dislike than ones I like. But the other morning, I happened to see a good one: Campbell’s Soup’s new ad for their line of organic soups.

The ad features a small family: a son, mother, and father. It opens with the son using a glue stick at the kitchen table on an art project. The camera cuts to the mother, who is heating tomato basil soup on the stove. She tastes it and says, “I really like this organic soup.” The father, who is washing dishes in the sink says, “At least we know what he’s eating.” Then the camera cuts back to the son who is now licking his glue stick.

The irony made me LOL for at least a minute, even before I’d had my chocolate and caffeine for the day. Excellent ad — it should win something. And it fits with the brand’s tagline of “Campbell’s, made for real, real life.”

However, I should mention that some ever-astute YouTube viewers dislike the ad because the mother dips her spoon back into the soup after she tastes it, thus ensuring her family will catch some nasty disease (barring the acidity of the tomato soup and the heat).

As for bad ads, one I loved to hate a few years back was for Botox, a toxin that when injected into the body, relaxes muscles for months. It has a number of medical uses, including cosmetic — namely, smoothing facial wrinkles.

It’s bad enough that women willingly inject themselves with a toxin that paralyzes their facial muscles for the sake of beauty. Even worse is the commercial that encouraged women to use Botox to “express” themselves (“It’s all about freedom of expression.”) The only problem is the ad writers forgot the entire reason women use Botox is for freedom FROM expression.

That commercial made me yell every time I heard it.

Do you have any favorite ads or ads you love to hate? Any secret job you suspect you do in an alternate universe?

And no, Campbell’s Soup and Botox do not sponsor my blog. (Smile.)

Duluth Does the Day of the Dead

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All Souls Night 2015 007
At the risk of having you all think I’m extremely morbid, (since I just wrote about obituaries) I am going to write about All Souls Night in Duluth, also known as the Day of the Dead. It’s a community event that, although somber, is an expression of joy and remembrance for our ancestors.

I’ve wanted to attend All Souls Night for a year or two, but it never worked out until this week. Part of the event is held indoors and part outdoors on a chilly northern November evening. After applying colorful skull makeup at home, my friends and I arrived for the indoors part in time to hear a local singer and choir perform. Then there was a ceremony to honor the dead. Most touching was when audience members called out the names of the departed. Their offerings were recognized with the ring of a bell.

Tribal belly dancers came next, honoring the dead with their sinuous and graceful movements. Then it was time to head outdoors for the Funeral March for Bad Ideas. A jazz brass band led the hundred-plus people around the block along with stilt walkers, and several huge puppets that depicted death and rebirth: fish and moose skeletons combined with a monarch caterpillar and butterfly.

We gathered in a pavilion and held a ceremony to burn pieces of paper upon which the audience had written their bad ideas from the past year. Some were funny (like “Donald Trump”) and others were more personal. My friends and I were getting cold, so we left after the spiral dance, missing the music that continued indoors.

I was impressed by the range of ages of the crowd. There were more children than I was expecting for an event that deals with death. But I suppose it is good to have the next generation learn about honoring ancestors.

I was also surprised to learn this has been going on for eight years here. Candlelight and singing amid the clutter of our lives. . . .

My Obituary

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I was digging through an old grocery bag of papers and artwork from my school days when I found a news story that detailed my death. I must have written it for English class. Here it is:

Another schoolwork bag find: my shadow portrait from sixth grade.

Another schoolwork bag find: my shadow portrait from sixth grade.

Marie, 16, died today after saving five girls from drowning. She was lifeguarding at the YWCA girl’s camp, Camp Wanakiwin. The girls were having trouble swimming to shore from an airplane that crashed in the lake near the camp.

Said one of the rescued girls, “She was going back to the plane to get a sixth girl when the plane blew up.”

Marie had completed her sophomore year at (specific school name deleted to protect the innocent). Her anatomy teacher said that she was witty and smart. “I used to give her a hard time,” he said. “Her presence will be sorely missed in school.”

Marie was one of the top swimmers and cross-country skiers at (school name), holding the city titles for 100-yard breaststroke and girl’s senior high cross-country skiing.

The funeral will be held at First United Methodist Church, 10 a.m., this Wednesday.

I’m sure I wrote the story tongue-in-cheek (delusions of grandeur, much?!), but it gives a glimpse into the things that were important to me at the time: mainly, my lifeguarding class and athletics. My anatomy teacher was my favorite because he was always cracking jokes and made learning fun. And what better way to leave this world than in an effort to help others, combined with a big explosion!

Later, after I became a mother and wrote a relative’s obituary, I wrote a serious obituary about myself. Motherhood and my relative’s death reminded me of my mortality, and the journalist in me wanted to know that the last words written about me would be somewhat accurate. That obituary has been lost to the winds of time, but I recall it focused on my career and role as a mother.

Lately I’ve been considering taking a stab at another one. Not to be morbid, but because I’m not sure that my kids or relatives know enough to do it justice. I mean, think about it. Good obituary writing is an art. And for some people, it’s the only time they’ll ever get in the newspaper other than their birth announcement. I’d really rather have my obituary say more than I liked knitting and was a good speller.

I’ve saved a couple of friends’ obituaries I thought were well written. But I suppose that even after I rewrite mine, I’ll have to update it — sort of like a resume or a will. Things change the longer you live. Accomplishments that were important to you in high school no longer matter as much when you’re in your fifties.

From my past efforts I know that writing your own obituary causes you to take stock of life. It makes you ask: Is what I’m doing really important? (To yourself or to society.) Is this how I want to be remembered? Do I need to change something?

Who will write your obituary after you die? Do you think they’ll get it right? Does it matter or is it all vanity? It’s something to consider.

The Spot Where my Phone Used to be

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The spot in question.

The spot in question.

So I got rid of my landline phone this week. I have never been without an old-fashioned phone in my house. But the only calls I ever received on it were telemarketing calls (even though I’m on the “Do Not Call” registry), and over the past few months, I’ve been preparing for this change by updating my phone number to my cell number with all the organizations that need to know.

Plenty of people I know have done this same thing and survived. But what if I forgot to notify an important organization? What if someone local is trying to reach me and doesn’t have my cell number? What if cell service goes out and I simply MUST make a call? What if I need to call 9-1-1 and they can’t locate me correctly through my cell signal?

It will be okay, right? Right??!

I do not need Halloween to be scared this month. I only need to look at the spot where my phone used to be.

The Purge (or When a Trip to the Dump can be Good for the Soul)

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Image courtesy of St. Louis County, Minn.

Image courtesy of St. Louis County, Minn.

Today I got rid of some dead weight and made a new friend along the way.

It was time for fall cleaning, if you will. I got rid of some household hazardous waste (fluorescent light tubes and used snow blower oil) and detritus accumulated over several years — both mine and my parents.

My family moved our aging parents twice in the past several years — from their home to an assisted living facility, and from there to another facility in a different town. I kept some of their things on the chance they might need them, but now that it’s been several years and they live out of town, I realized that ain’t gonna happen. So it was time for a purge.

How it works at our self-service dump is you tell the attendant what you’ve got in your (car, truck or trailer) load and they assess you a charge. Then you drive up a hill. Below the hill are large dumpsters either for metals, cardboard, wood, or miscellaneous waste. You park on the dumpster hill and then toss your junk down into the appropriate container. After that, you drive down the hill and loop back to the entrance to a shed where electronics are collected.

The last time I visited the local dump (now called the more politically correct “Materials Recovery Center”) was about a year after my divorce. I loaded all the junk my ex (who was sort of a hoarder) left into my then-boyfriend’s truck and we made a date of going to the dump. Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!

Let me tell you, throwing your stuff into the dumpster abyss is a rush. You’re flinging off your old world to make room for the new. It can get addicting. My boyfriend and I laughed as we did it — the feeling was so freeing. This time, I felt rather sad because some of my parents’ discarded items meant their lives would never be the same, but still it felt good to get the stuff cleaned out of my house and garage.

And I made a new friend in the form of the lady attendant who assessed my load. We happened to have the same type of vehicle, so while I was showing her the stuff in my trunk, we talked about the merits of our cars. I paid and when she came back to give me the receipt she asked more questions about my car.

I thought having a dump worker who wasn’t a stressed out robot was a nice change of pace. But the guy in the truck behind me did not. He yelled at the woman to hurry up. Ignoring him, she replied to me, “It’s my job.” (With the unspoken, “And I can do what I like to make it bearable.”) We exchanged a few more words and then I went on my merry way up dumpster hill.

After my cathartic dump (smile), I waved to her as I left.

So, that’s life in northern Minnesota. We make friends at the dump and get our kicks tossing stuff away. What can I say?

Try visiting your local dump someday. It could be good for your soul.

Boston may be Strong, but Cambridge is Fit

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Jogger approaching (wearing spandex) along the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.

Jogger approaching (wearing spandex) along the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.

I meandered over to Cambridge, Mass., last weekend for a national science writers convention (believe it or not, there are such gatherings). My hotel was on the Charles River, with Cambridge on one side and Boston on the other.

Cambridge 2015 008Boston University, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and Harvard all have boathouses and yacht clubs on the Charles. I awoke every morning to instructions yelled from coaches to rowers, and to the sight of sleek single and multiple sculls skimming the water. (How’s that for alliteration? Couldn’t help it.)

Cambridge 2015 023I was able to take a long walk by the river. Besides the rowers and sailboaters, what impressed me on my stroll was the shear volume of runners, bikers, and walkers. And every one of them was wearing spandex no matter if they were short, tall, wide, narrow, young or old. I, however, did not get the spandex memo, so trod along in my jeans and canvas jacket.

Morning, noon, and night the asphalt trail along with river was crowded with exercisers. Although Boston is known for its post-marathon bombing emotional strength (Boston Strong!), Cambridge will be forever burned into my mind for the fitness of the people I saw during my walk and from my hotel window.

If you ever travel to Cambridge, don’t be like me. Get the memo. Pack your spandex.

Cambridge 2015 028

My Politically Correct Pin

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Fish 002
Perhaps you own something that’s so politically and socially correct, it’s almost funny. My thing is a multi-colored fish pin (pictured here) that I bought in New Orleans many years ago, when Hurricane Katrina was only a gleam in the weatherman’s eye.

I can’t remember what store I bought it in, but I do remember it was made from recycled Mardi Gras gowns and television set wire by homeless, disabled (and probably starving) artists. Now, since Katrina, I can only imagine what kinds of politically and socially correct trinkets must be for sale in New Orleans.

Since I work for a water-related organization, I have opportunities to wear my pin sometimes, and to expound upon its virtues when asked. But mostly, I just like how it looks. The whole correctness thing is just a side benefit. Do you have a similar thing?

Bobcat Fog

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Fog

Buddy and I went for a walk along the lake in the fog this evening. I love fog. It’s so . . . atmospheric. Makes you feel enveloped, safe in a wall of mist, moving mysterious through the world. Of course, Lake Superior was gray, too – water and sky indistinguishable, quiet.

As a fog-lover, I live in the right place. The dynamics of the lake and the hillside in Duluth make for a larger than usual number of foggy days.

During my walk, I was reminded of the Carl Sandburg poem about fog – how it comes in on little cat feet. He wrote that about Chicago – seeing fog in the harbor. But cat feet just don’t cut it for Duluth. Our far north fog is less domesticated, a bit more dangerous. If I were to write a haiku about fog in Duluth, I would describe the fog as coming in on bobcat feet.

Another Dating Horror Story: The Johnny Carson Show Suit

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“Johnny Carson Tonight Show 1965” by NBC Television. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

My most recent post, a dating horror story, received a lot of views, and comments from my Facebook friends. I decided to stay on this topic for one more post just for kicks –not because I am perfect. I’m sure I’ve had my share of dating gaffes, although I can’t recall any. Probably because I have blocked them out of my mind to maintain my shaky self-confidence. (Smile.)

This dating story happened many years ago when I was in college. Johnny Carson was the King of Late Night Television and Stephen Hawking had just published “A Brief History of Time.” You may not think these things are related, but they are — at least in the mind of my college student date.

Our first dinner was winding down and my date told me he had read Stephen Hawking’s book. It inspired him to develop his own theory of time, which he assured me was even better than Hawking’s. In fact, it was so good that my date was sure he would be invited as a guest on the Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. He even knew what suit he would wear on the show – a brown one, I believe.

Of course, the dear boy was just trying to impress me. (I don’t think he was even a science major.) However, bravado is one thing, and grandiose delusions are another. We did not go on another date.

As far as I know, nobody else has bested Mr. Hawking’s theory of time. But it was nice that my date knew just what to wear if he ever became famous. We should all be so prepared!

We Only Shoot the Things We Love

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A male wood duck. Image credit: “Brautente 2008-03-21 065” by BS Thurner Hof – Own work. Licensed under GFDL via Wikimedia Commons.

Dating horror stories – so miserable at the time but so fun to reminisce about after the dust has settled. And so fun to read. Here’s my contribution.

I met a man and, after a few weeks, visited his house for the first time. His place as well-cared for and impressive – until I got to the den. The walls were covered with taxidermied ducks. Now, I’m okay with hunting. I realize that meat needs to come from somewhere, and that hunting is sort of a dying art. But I soon discovered my date was hunting for a whole ‘nother reason.

His reason came to light when I couldn’t help but comment on the wood duck he had among his collection. Now, male wood ducks are like the Mr. Universe of the duck world. As you can see from the photo, they’re beautiful. They’re also rather rare in these parts. They nest in large holes in trees on the water. They don’t hurt anybody. And as faithful readers of my blog know, I have a thing for birds.

I made some sort of comment like – “Oh, and you’ve got a wood duck. They’re so beautiful….”

“That’s why I shot it,” he said.

Immediately, an irrational part of my woman dater’s brain thought: If this is what he does to things he finds beautiful, what will he do to things he loves? Heat-seeking missiles, maybe bombs? It reminded me of a quote from the poem by Oscar Wilde (“The Ballad of Reading Gaol”), “For each man kills the thing he loves…”

Of course, I know that there’s a big difference between killing a duck and killing a human, but try telling that to my primitive brain.

That relationship didn’t go very far.