54 headlines

Assignment: Create in-store POP for individual cake slices. Appeal to the idea that customers still want to indulge here and there but they are concerned about their budget. This way, they can have a piece of cake...for very little cake.

Result: 54 (some good, some not so good) headlines about love, weight gain, secrets, passion, being rational and making a commitment (or not):



It’s like a date. If it’s good, you’ll want another one. (It’s good).

A little cake won’t go a long way. In fact, it will barely make it out of the store.

Cake safe for thighs.

Passion requires a bit of restraint.

There’s nothing very attractive about eating a whole cake. Especially if you live alone.

Big enough for two. Small enough to not embarrass you if you eat it all.

Too much broccoli makes Janey a dull girl.

A person cannot live on steamed carrots alone.

No one but the dog will know.

The cat won’t tell anyone.

Love it like a fat kid does. Minus that piggy behavior.

You won’t have to hide the leftovers.

Ours is smaller. We like it that way.

You can pack only so much insanely delicious goodness into something this small. And we did it.

If your life isn’t cake, you should have some.

If only life was a piece of cake. But wait, it can be.

Tempting. But not cruelly so.

Passion in small delicious doses is a good way to live.

Tempt your passion for great dessert.

Objects in case are closer to your special occasion than they appear.

When it’s this good, you’ll come back.

Surrender to passion. But do it rationally.

Passion you can rationalize.

A passionate soul with a rational mind.

So beautiful, it’s art. So right, it’s smart.

Edible art.

Art you can eat.

Artfully crafted. Smartfully priced.

We’re taking the bite out of this economy. With a slice.

Good things come in little individually sized, perfectly decorated, outrageously yummy packages.

Celebrate the passion in life. One—beautifully, handcrafted, individually-sized slice—at a time.

A passion for dessert. A rational need for convenience.

Passion can sometimes be rational.

Celebrate your passion for dessert. But keep it rational.

Think rationally. Live passionately.

A passion for handcrafted dessert. One rational slice at a time.

You can always come back for more.

Have your cake. In a less committed fashion.

Some things are better smaller and with no commitment.

Indulge big. Pay less.

Love don’t cost a thing. This slice is a nice price, too.

Everything worthwhile involves some sort of passion.

There’s passion behind every great decision.

No matter how you slice it, it’s always passion.

Whatever you do, do it with passion.

Never underestimate passion in small doses.

Passion in small doses can do wonders.

True passion often results in euphoria.

A whole cake is commitment. A slice is freedom.

A whole cake is a commitment. A piece is peace.

Passion comes at a price. In this case, it’s reasonable.

Passion is rarely reasonable. This is one of those times.

the art of friendship

there are things you do for each other. and things you do not. things you put up with. things you forgive. i may not be a perfect friend but i know i am a good friend. loyal to the core and forgiving as hell.

so, of course, i expect the same.

and i expect patience in particular. funny enough, this is, personally, my biggest downfall: patience. but it's not with others. it's with myself. (see below about letting go and control and all that). i get incredibly impatient when i can't control things that i think i should. i am, however, very patient with my friends. very patient.

anyway, i am blogging about a friend who thinks i let her down. but, you know what, she let me down, too.

i have a story that illustrates a similar situation that i found myself in. and what i did and how it turned out. the way i behaved was how i would expect any friend of mine to behave:

five years ago i was living in new hampshire and i went to visit a friend in new york city. she was having relationship troubles and feeling kinda down. i was going through a divorce. i figured we could help each out. i was alright with the divorce as i'd been the one to ask for it. her, not so much. she was pretty upset at the time. her relationship was unraveling and she was afraid it was over.

so i packed up my trusty steed and drove the six hours to spend the weekend with her. a "girl's weekend" if you will. (take note: if boys wish to glom onto any said "girl's weekend" i have never, ever taken offense. i like boys. always have). i digress. back to the story at hand. ok, so, i did the long, hectic drive. it was worth it. it was so great to see her. we hung out, had some wine, then went to dinner. talked about the stuff, the guy sitch. all of it. a while later, we're at this martini bar/restaurant in lower manhattan (actually the same place where they had their rehearsal dinner), and guess who shows up.

yep.

him. the guy. the man. i could see her heart almost pound right out of her chest when she saw him. at that point, i knew i was just fading into the woodwork.

good thing i'd brought my journal. and that i liked martinis. and that i'm not shy.

because i sat in that martini bar/restaurant for, oh, a good three hours. maybe more. they left for a while. came back. i talked to strangers at the bar. took notes. swilled vodka from fancy glasses.

was i bored? at times. was i annoyed? eh. a little. but was i so angry that i would consider leaving? hell no.

and i'm glad i didn't. i'm glad i was...patient. forgiving. understanding. and kind.

because that's what true friends do for each other. and the next day she apologized profusely and i said, whatever, trust me, i understand. and we walked and talked for so many hours around central park in the august heat that my ankles swelled for days. and we talked endlessly about her broken heart. and his. and what should they do. and all of those important things you just need to feel and discuss with people who know you well. and i was that friend for her that weekend.

so when someone came to visit me recently for a planned "girl's weekend" and i happened to run into someone i still care very much for and with whom i felt the need to step outside of a bar to talk to....i expected my friend, who was talking to some guy she'd called over from across the bar, to wait. yes, i sure did. i expected her to wait for a bit. and understand.

that's what the kind of friends i need in my life do. and will do. just like i did for that friend in new york five years ago. and i'd do it again. (note: always bring a journal, an iPod, a Blackberry these days, whatever you might need to keep yourself busy for stretches of time if angst-friend is in need).

it's what you do.

that's all.

the art of friendship is inherent, just like any talent.

i suppose i was born with it.

maybe others aren't so lucky.

dad's stuff of late

the art of failure

It's a cliche for a reason but, seriously, sometimes all you need is to get away. I guess we were of the same mind when each of us went to the beach this past weekend. He claimed it was because he "had a lot to think about." My reason (not expressed in words until here on this page): I'm going out of my mind. I can't look at that cat face any longer. I can't look at the can of paint (that needs to be out of can and onto wall) in the kitchen any longer. I can't look at the endless weeds in the yard, mocking me. And it doesn't matter what I try to do or how much I accomplish (even if it feels satisfying, yes), I'm still thinking about it. Not that "it" is a bad thing. It's not. It's just....a lot. And, man, I need a change of scenery.

And before I could protest that I had "so much to do, no way can I leave," I was rescued. Actually, I was coerced. Plainly told what to do. And I complied without hesitation. iPod charged up, tank full of gas, the 1970s oversized woven Mexican beach blanket that my parents used back in the day tossed in the backseat....and we were off... a lil road trip to Pass-a-Grille. We stopped at Whole Foods in Tampa for "something not fried" and a big bottle of Crystal Geiser. As I got closer to the water, I could feel every muscle in my overly tense body relax. Something changes in me around water and always has. I used to board the ferry for Martha's Vineyard every summer after college and instantly forget the stressful exams and the hasty packing up and the returning of books and the bittersweet goodbyes, some temporary, some permanent.

I was always transformed into something better with one view at the deep, blue-black water and the feel of the sticky-thick salty air on my skin and the slow movement of the ferry, transporting me elsewhere, off the land and into a more magical place, a place resting in the middle of the water, with heavier, denser air, and a welcoming sense of isolation. Long before the Clintons. It was an enchanting, but down-to-earth place that happened to be the home of Carly Simon and Jackie O. It was also chock-full of lesser known writers, artists, and musicians. Not celebrity worshippers so much as locals. Especially then. It was fisherman. Old hippies who never left. And a woman who told me once "driving on freeways puts ruts in your brain." People of that nature. Water people. People who like silence. Air. And space around them. And, of course, the sound and the smell of the water. Like me of the Scorpio sun and Pisces rising. All happily washed up.

Crossing that bridge this weekend was no different---and yet it was. Life is much harder now. Isn't it? It's harder to just...be. Harder to let things go. I know it's about control---having it, losing it, trying to get it back. But, as I have to keep reminding myself: I am not in control.

And that is really ok. It's good to admit. What is control anyway but an issue with judging oneself? I judge myself harshly, bitterly, unmercifully. I don't do this to others. But I expect them to do it to me. And, sometimes, well, they do. The control aspect of my life is really about how well I achieve things. And how I react to failing. Failure is not an option in my little world. But failure is an everyday occurrence. Like spilling your coffee on your pants on the way to work. That's failure. Or blatantly misspelling a word you know very well and turning it into to traffic. That's failure. Or losing your job, your self esteem, your boyfriend, because you feel so out of control and like such a.....failure.

But, the truth of it is, the failure isn't the things that happen, it's the way you react to the things that happen.

Whatever the case may be, there's little (and big) failure all the time. And I'm learning, oh so slowly, that this is gonna happen. Again and again and again. So what can I do about it? How can I change how I react to it?

I have to....let it go. But, for someone like me, a type A person, masquerading in a type B frame of "I'm a creative" mind, well, I can assure you, I don't let things go. I hold on to them like they're mine, all mine. And, yes, it's all my fault. Because I failed. Because I'm not good enough until I've controlled every last thing.

What a joke. What an illusion. It's simply not possible. And who wants to hang onto all that? God, it's so heavy.

With all this in mind, and out of town, and away from the cat, the paint, the weeds....I floated in the warm, salty ocean, I let myself feel light. I smiled at people as I passed them on the beach. I slathered SPF all over me each time I got out of the water but still I got too much sun. Eh. It's ok. (I have a feeling melanoma isn't the way I'm gonna bite it).

And I felt happy. And freer than I've felt in a long, long time. Learning to let go, as cheesy (and again, thank you very much) as cliched as it sounds, well, it's the only way to live.

The only way to live.

Otherwise, I'm pretty sure you're not living at all. You're just thinking about ways to "control" your life. What a waste of time.

Note to self: Achieve. Fail. Don't give up. Be alright with what happens.

electrocution and splat

It was "taco day" at lunch today, a very popular day in the big corporate cafeteria. So we were all sitting there at lunch and this guy Mike asks the group: "What if you could get struck by lightning in a catastrophic way.....and then immediately have everything go back to normal? Would you do it to see what it felt like?"

This guy, Scott, quickly answered: "Absolutely. I would."

I asked "What would be the point of that---to feel the pain?"

"No," Mike said, "it would be like nothing happened."

"Um, okay, well then really what's the point? If you're not going to feel anything at all, then you're not experiencing anything---other than being able to say to people: 'I was struck by lightning once but I couldn't even describe it to you.'

Here's something different: how about if you could free fall from a huge skyscraper and go splat on the pavement below...breaking every bone in your body and your skull crushing like a grape? How about that? Would you try that if you could just get up and everything be back to normal?"

Mike said: "I knew this guy who jumped out of a plane once and he went to pull the parachute and it didn't open. He just fell out of the sky....all the way down. And the weird thing, he said when he landed it was just like nothing; just like somebody turned the lights out and it was pitch black and then it felt like being pummeled by a thousand pillows."

"No pain at all?"

"No, he said there wasn't. I mean, he did break every bone in his body, though, but he lived."

"How did he fall out of a freaking plane and not die?"

"Well, he fell in a bog, like three feet of water...so that helped."

So I was sitting there thinking about dying. I guess we all were. Or, maybe we were thinking about pain and the extreme pain that goes along with certain types of dying. And what if we could feel that...taste that...touch that...and live? What would we know?

Taco day. Lunch. The sun broke through the clouds today for the first time in three. I don't want to fall out of a plane and crush to death. I don't want to be struck by lightning and feel nothing.

There's poetry falling from the sky. I'll drown, and live, in that.

my personal life disguised by advertising

'tis true, friends. and has been true since the very beginning. for whatever reason, i cannot, and perhaps, let's be honest, will not cease to extrapolate personal tidbits from my life and inject them into every ad i possibly can. my deepest feelings about my well-meaning, however intense, mother, my bitchy cat, a devastating breakup, a clingy friend, my eccentric, spray-painted-gold-shoe-wearing father are all out there for all to see. it's up to you to find the meaning in the billboard, the seemingly innocuous point-of-purchase displays, the ad in the local magazine. but i assure you, i absolutely confess that my life is an open book. well, okay, not yet. someday, perhaps, my novel will write itself from the innermost recesses of my crammed-full-of-tales heart but, until then, you can get a glimpse or two of my life. it's not a myspace page blaring to the masses. no, not that. it's more concealed, but if you know the stories, or you know the pain and the epiphanies, you may recognize yourself out there.

let's call it my diary for sale in a jumbled-up, mixed-up fashion, disguised as advertising. and doing it, so they say, pretty damn well. my personal failures, successes and dreams are selling you something. for now, it's something you can eat. how interesting.

i'd show you some stuff, surely i would, but, well, i can't. some of it hasn't been released yet. and there are copyright laws. and competition. and legalities. but look for it, i tell you. it's out there.

with love, pain, experience, acceptance and, yep, sure thing, advertising.

that's art...kinda?

the lost art of being me

so much in my life has changed since december of 2006. i'm not really sure where to start. artistically, let's just say that i've been a bit, ahem, stunted. not that i haven't been writing. i have been writing. secretly writing. voraciously lapping at words like a baby licking candy. soul-wrenchingly tearing at my heart for meaning in letters that make words that make no sense anymore. pain is pain. sex is sex. what more is there to say. in meetings i write little sentences. i listen to phrases, colloquialisms, bullshitty "think outside the box"isms ad nauseum. i am doodling thoughts on the pieces of junk mail i haven't chucked yet---during telephone conversations: "jess you must be multi-tasking" and the oft reply "oh yeah, sorry, call you back?"

driven to distraction. how much more distraction can any of us take, i wonder?

i plunk my long day at work, huge commute, tired self down on the couch to watch a movie or whatever looks good, diva bitch cat in lap, only to flip channels, move cat out of way to replace with MacBook, only to flip channels some more, be interrupted by wine-swilling roommate who offers me a glass in one of my prized, and therefore never used, glasses in the cupboard above the everyday stuff. but, as he says, "what if you died tomorrow? would you be glad you didn't use these?" the point is well taken. what if indeed. yet, what's the point of drinking cheap wine from expensive glasses? does it elevate the crap somehow? doubtful.

no movie gets watched. no writing gets done. the cat gets a few stairmaster-like presses into my now braless, malleable chest, ouch man, get off me, leaving behind a white clump of fur almost as large as the cat herself. someone texts me about the magic game "come meet me?" someone else calls, i press ignore. the channels get flipped. the cat steps on the MacBook pressing keys that lead me to another page i don't want, don't need. not that i need....any of it really.

so what do i need?

something real.

that's what i need.

something that doesn't involve a television, a computer or a cell phone. something that doesn't ring or chirp or make any sort of mechanical sound. something that lives, breathes and has feelings, too.

i've got some stories to tell. finally. they're brewing up there in my little blonde head. like i said a few years ago on this very page, stay tuned, friends. there are things to report.