Bring On The Prozac

I'm happy with my life. Seriously. But I'm just a bit neurotic about a few things, and I think if I medicated myself, then perhaps I wouldn't be so bitchy about them.

Take my husband's' socks, for example. He likes to take them off immediately after he sits down, and the socks remain there until I pick them up. Regardless of where he's sitting. Which means I find dirty socks under the coffee table, in front of the toilet, in bags close to the sofa, or, when he's trying to be funny, ON the kitchen table. They're just socks, nothing life threatening. Worst case scenario, my newly-crawling daughter buzzes by me with a dirty sock hanging from her mouth. She'll live. So why do socks drive me so crazy?

And the piles. Endless piles of stuff strew from my back door to the bedroom. He likes to empty his pockets upon entering a room, and the little piles all over the house make it look like the entire house is drowning under little piles of change, reciepts, and car knick-knacks.

Another example... my cubicle neighbor calls and talks to her customers. Why does this bother me so much? Is it because it makes her look like a better designer than me? Is it because she CARES about what her customers think? Why do I care anyway?

I truly have nothing in life to complain about. I have a very loving (albeit messy, but I am too), loyal and absolutely wonderful husband, a beautiful child, and every material thing in life I ever needed. A beautiful house. Great cars. Fun job. So what is the deal?

Is it time for the happy pills when you start to have to FIND stuff to bitch about?

Pinkie

A.D.D. is Contagious

I used to be an incredibly focused person. Used to be. Enter Chip, my husband.

Chip has what I like to call The Idea of The Day (IOTD). Sometimes it's drastic ("Let's move!"), sometimes it's not (no example comes to mind, here.) He is constantly dreaming up new & exciting projects. The list is almost as long as the list of cars he has owned since we've been together. Some of these IOTD's could be amazing business propositions. Some of them could create one-of-a-kind collectibles that might catapult him into a new realm of fame never before encountered. Almost all of them are expensive in either a financial or emotional way.

There was a time when these IOTD's would send me into mini panic attacks. I've always been a stay-in-on-place kind of girl, and the very few times I tried to step out of my happy little box, things ended traumatically. Then, as years passed and these IOTD's slowly faded into ADD oblivion, I came to realize if I didn't like what he proposed, all I have to do is keep my mouth shut & wait. Two days later, it's gone. Completely. Never existed.

You see, Chip is my first experience with adult ADD. He hasn't been officially diagnosed, but we both know he has it. It's a running joke between us; he needs to go to the doctor but he keeps forgetting. The fact of the matter is, I wouldn't change it for the world. I love our quirky, crazy life. If he was medicated, it would supress all the characteristics that I love about him. Now, that being said, I've discovered a horrible side effect of ADD.

It's contagious.

Recently, I've begun to notice I have too many ideas. I'm going to do this, I'm going to do that, but I forgot what it is I was supposed to be doing. Case in point: this website. ADD perfectly illustrated. Where is it going? What is the focus? WHAT THE HELL DOES SHE DO? Is she a designer? A photographer? A video editor? A webmaster? A sculptor? I can't answer that. I know that if I could find my focus again, I could be very successfully self-employed. But if I medicate myself to cure my newly-aquired ADD, I might lose the very creativity that drives me to pursue all of these interests.

Focus, focus... where the hell was I going with this?

Fashion Victim

I am a walking fashion mess, and I am perfectly okay with that. I can't justify spenging hundreds of dollars on clothes that I will only wear for a season. (I'd much rather spend that money on something functional, like a kiln!) So I often recycle clothes for years, wearing them until I can't patch the holes anymore.

I have to say, there is a great deal of art influencing fashion, and I appreciate that. I appreciate the Mona Lisa also, but I can't justify buying it, hanging it on my wall, and staring at it everyday. Just like fashion, I'll get tired of looking at it, and it will become just another THING in my house that takes up space and is completely taken for granted. It's like eating Cheerios everyday. I hate Cheerios.

Houston fashion is something completely unlike anything else I've ever experienced. Women here like sparkly, glittery things. Perfectly coifed Japanese-straightened platinum hair and razor sharp French manicured claws. I've often heard the mumbles & grumbles as I walk by in my cargo shorts & huge frumpy T-shirts. The little snickers and insults that women are so adept at. At 5'11", all it takes is a mere glance in their petite direction to shut them up. But I don't begrudge them their Gucci and Prada. I admire their taste. Beautiful things for beautiful people.

I'm just not a sparkly, glittery kind of girl anymore. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate it. I just choose not to participate.

If You're Ugly, Don't Advertise It

Quite often I come across instructions to "include picture in ad." I then turn the page to find Joe Blow's picture taken at high noon with every wrinkle, blemish, and horrible imperfection prominently displayed in the most hideous photographs known to man.

I'm not ugly, per se, but I'm no beauty queen, and I'm okay with that. I would NEVER want my picture in my advertising because it is SO true; a picture speaks a thousand words. People would look into my beady little eyes and immediate think, "She looks condescending. I don't think I'll call her." It amazes me that so many people in life are in complete denial. What is the purpose of putting your photo in your advertising? Do you think it will jog someone's memory?

"Oh yeah, I remember that face! I think I'll call that guy to fix my air conditioner!"

Seriously, why??? If you need fifteen minutes of fame, run down to your local bar and sing karaoke or something. At least that won't defer people from giving you business (unless you're a really bad singer). Photographs serve absolutely no purpose other than feeding your ego and wasting valuable white space. Class is not defined by your Glamour Shot. Even if you were blessed with a beautiful face, advertise your BUSINESS, not yourself. Your graphic artist will thank you for it.

Roar!

Vocabulary Optional

After plowing through hundreds of crappy ads, a graphic designer starts to lose use of their vocabulary skills. It's a past-time of my department to inadvertently make up our own language. One girl, Jennifer, is rather adept at this skill. Luckily, she has a great since of humor about it. Some of my personal favorites: mushy-brained (tired at the end of the day), paginitation (pagination), and my absolute favorite; the spelling of the word wreath (REEF).

She's British. It's not her fault.

I've decided to start documenting our language faux-pas here. One struck me as particularly humorous this morning. This one came from another artist, but it's still worthy of sharing.

"While returning grief-strucken from one funeral, the woman found out her other brother was dead, too."

I'm grief-strucken that the English language has to endure such brutality... :)

A Jolly Time of Year

I hate Christmas. Before you recoil in terror and label me a Grinch... let me make my point.

First, from a graphics standpoint, it is a logistical nightmare. Red & green are NOT meant to go together. You can argue the color wheel theory to me 'til your blue in the face, but you will never convince me that the Xmas color scheme is beautiful.
I actually like the "blue" Christmas thing, but you have to live in my household to understand that a single color scheme will NEVER happen...(Christmas tree stories for another day...)

But people are generally MEANER around Christmas. Everyone is hassled because they actually have to go out and shop. Then they stress out because they're short on cash. All of this manifests into vicious cases of road rage (guilty), which in turn makes 90% of adults grumpy, mean & spiteful. Merry Freakin' Christmas.

I'm truly hoping that the joy on my daughter's face will redeem this lost holiday for me. I don't expect much this year beyond drool and a smile (she thinks the dog is the coolest thing in the world). But I want to be transported back to a time when Christmas was fun & happy for somebody besides the credit card companies...

Flash Shocked

In my profession, a sleek website is absolutely essential. So I'm browsing the web for resources, and I am completely flabbergasted at the prices of Flash elements. If you want sound on your website, (decent sound), it's going to cost you. So I, being the ultimate cheapskate and digital Martha Stewart, decided to start my own sound foundry. The site will be called the DJ Skye Project, and it will include FREE downloadable Flash loops. I understand there are many people out there trying to make a buck on the Web, but is it truly necessary to charge $200 for a collection of 50 sound loops? And people wonder why Limewire is so damned popular...

So, if you're a budding Flash sound artist and you want to get your name out there, I invite you to drop me a line and I will feature you on my site. You know as soon as you put the words "FREE download," there's gonna be some traffic...

Creativity is the Mother of Destruction

Today is my boss's 50th birthday. In a not-so-clever attempt to protect his personal items, he locked his office door and removed part of the locking mechanism is a feeble attempt to keep the graphics department from defacing everything.

Silly man. Don't you know graphic designers are theives & liars?

"Of course we wouldn't do anything to your office, sir..."

Three hundred balloons, 3 boxes of Hefty bags, and four bags of glitter later...voilá! A virtual birthday masterpiece. We were going for the ball-pen effect, and I'm proud to say as he waded knee-deep in black balloons, I think we succeeded.

Never, never, never trust any department that has the word "creative" in it.

My Kewpie

30 Will Get You Too, My Pretty...

My mother used to preach at me constantly as I stuffed Star Crunch after Twinkie after Swiss Roll into my mouth...
"You'd better enjoy that, because you're not going to be able to eat like that when you're thirty."
Pish. What does she know? I thought to myself. Silly old woman. She also said someday I'd turn into HER.

Fast forward 15 years. Hello 30. I am now sitting here eating 12-grain toast with imitation sans-trans-fat-psuedo butter flavoring, trying to chug down yet another bottle of water while I nod off from getting up before dawn to run until my shins are screaming in agony. And yet, despite this grueling schedule, I still cannot manage to shed the final 20 pounds of lard from my ever-spreading ass since having my child in March.

It hardly seems fair. I watch the beautiful people float by and think in a dirty, evil little voice within my head, "Ha ha, lets see if you can stuff your ass in those pants in another 10 years, you little floozy." Granted, I'm sure ten years ago someone was thinking the exact same thing about me as I strolled by, my perky little ass hanging out of my signature sundresses, made all the more stunning by the platforms I loved to wear because 5'11" naturally just wasn't high enough to look down my nose at people. Hmmm. Young and blissfully stupid. If I went back, of COURSE I'd do it again. You only look that way for a little while, unless you're some freak of nature who was blessed with an abnormally hyper metabolism.

(Sigh). Of course it's jealousy. Age is a brutal thing. There's no such thing as aging gracefully, well, unless you're not a self-absorbed narcissist. Show me one woman who's happy with her aging process and I will show you a woman who is obviously taking anti-depressants.

Enjoy it while you have it, girls. 30 is a brutal, bloodthirsty, heartless, merciless monster who will crawl into your life and try to steal everything that makes life worth living. Indulgence, sleep and beauty, now distant memories, nothing more than ingredients in that birthday cake that goes straight to your thighs without passing go...

Psuedo-Butter-flavored toast is now your life-long friend.

Corporate Coffee Whore

I sold out. I am ashamed to admit it, but I gave in to temptation.

There was once a graphic designer who decided to poke fun at a corporate coffee giant by altering their logo and creating a satirical graphic novel about said nameless corporate coffee conglomerate. Now, you would think this company, who is largely supported by the artsy designer types, would not take itself so seriously and appreciate that this designer decided to poke fun at them. After all, the designer was a devoted customer. Most of us are. Coffee and the graphic artist are in inseparable pair, a symbiotic relationship that was born shortly after the conception of the first laptop.

The corporate coffee giant swiftly hit the tiny designer with a copyright lawsuit. It seams that this company is EXTREMELY protective of their logo. So much so, that they would stop at no lengths to crush the tiny designer, despite his years of loyal patronage. I was extremely offended. Without us, their sales would likely plummet! After all, it is the uber-trendy, dark-haired, pale-skinned, bespectacled cappaccino-sipping designer that fueled the great Western coffee rush of the 90's. How dare they bite the hand that so lovingly fed their corporate greed for years?

I joined the anti-corporate coffee movement. I sought my fix in the tiny coffee shops of New Orleans, choosing to donate to the needy instead of feeding the evil giant. A virtual Robin Hood of coffee I became, proud to stand up for what I believed in. But then...it began to happen.

The giant proceeded with it's plan for global domination, and everywhere I looked, on every corner, there stood another store, it's warm earthtones and exotic smells beckoning to me at every turn. Until one day, guilty, I sneaked in the front door and broke my internal vow. Hypocrite. Sell Out. Weak-minded turncoat. Treason.

But it was the best white chocolate mocha ever.

The Pedal On the Right Is The Gas

What ever happened to the fast lane? When did it become home to every law-abiding blue-hair and inattentive cell phone user intent on making the rest of us slow down?

I am the reason there is road rage. I pass on the right, without patience & without fail. If you are going slower than I am, I do not have time for you to figure out there is a great big bright yellow truck in your rearview mirror before you decide to tell whoever you are talking to on your cell phone that you need to move over because some idiot is about to run over you. That idiot is me, and nine times out of ten I am late for something.

I know what you're thinking; if you're in such a freaking hurry, then leave earlier. Touché. However, if you were not obstructing the FAST lane, then I wouldn't have to leave earlier, now would I?

Yes, I am an unsafe driver. Yes, I drive like a maniac, an ass, a jerk, & whatever else you want to call me. Now, kindly remember that if you see me and move quickly and quietly to the right, because you never know which day it will be when I snap and decide to use your vehicle as a speed bump.

My friends are missing

Tamara N. & Meghan L.; if you're reading this, send me an email RIGHT NOW! I'm worried about you girls!

Customer Service Sucks

And why wouldn't it? Have you seen what people have to endure from their customers these days?

Case in point: I'm in line at a popular craft store, and a young girl is frantically trying to check out the woman ahead of me as people stack up behind me. The woman is arguing about every item, swearing that the items are on sale. The girl assures her that the UPC codes are determined by the computer; if the item is on sale, it will automatically apply the discount.

Now, here's where it gets interesting. Instead of listening to the poor cashier, the loudmouth chooses to hold up the line and argue in an even louder tone. "I'm in here all the time! How dare you talk to me like that?" (I can bear witness, the girl was extreme cordial in her explanation, without a hint of condescension. I'm not sure I could have done the same...) When this refused to get a rise from the cashier, the customer took to doling out personal insults. "How does an idiot like you get a job as a cashier? Do you even know how to count?"

Meanwhile, the large line behind me is starting to get restless. But to my utter surprise, they are also angry at the cashier. "Why doesn't she just ring up the discount?" Why doesn't she, indeed? Perhaps because they have STUPID-PROOFED these point-of-sale cash registers. A monkey could run them. Just scan & put it in the bag. Until you encounter an individual such as the angry, self-righteous, I-am-entitled-to-a-discount-because-I yell lady. Or perhaps because we all pay inflated prices because of women like this, because they drive up the cost of inventory to compensate for the money the store isn't making by giving things away. Or maybe it's just the PRINCIPLE. I, too, and starting to get highly annoyed, but not quite for the same reason.

In the end, a manager comes. The cashier is nearly in tears. The manager backs down, keys in his magic manager code, and the lady gets her discount. Ever ungrateful, she has to mumble under her breath as she is stuffing her reciept into her bag. I step up to the cashier with a smile, but she doesn't make eye contact, choosing instead to focus all of her attention on my products. I lean forward with a non-confidential whisper; "Don't you just HATE bitchy people? She's probably got a miserable home life." I look directly into the eyes of the bitch, whose jaw is dropped in disbelief, then stand to my full 6'1" height (with heels on). Funny, she didn't have anything else to say after that. The cashier cracked the tiniest smile that she could get away with, but her eyes said volumes.

Having been in the service industry for 8 years, I can totally understand why people stop caring about their jobs. Everyone doesn't start out as a dull-eyed, slumped-over, monotone servant to the masses. They're driven to it by micro-managing, beligerent customers, and general lack of niceness in the world today.

My favorite customer service story takes me back to my table-waiting days at a very popular country restaurant. It was a crowded Sunday afternoon, and a good friend of mine, Kevin, was waiting on seven of the dumbest, back-woods, mullet-sporting rednecks I've ever encountered. Kevin was a six foot tall albino that also happened to be a flaming homosexual. He endured the taunts and barbs thrown at him with the true grace that only a homosexual man can possess, but was eventually driven to his breaking point when one of the rednecks proclaimed loud enough for the entire dining room to hear:

"I ain't eatin no food brought to me by a s@#$-packing faggot."

Kevin stood in front of the redneck with a tray full of nine tall glasses of iced tea. "You're right," he answered with dignity. "You won't have anything brought to you by this faggot because I JUST QUIT." And he dumped the entire tray of iced tea in the rednecks lap and walked calmly out the front door past all of our stunned faces.

Ha Ha! You go, girl!

Karma

My co-worker is from Pakistan, and she believes in karma. What goes around will come around. Be good and good things will happen to you. Be bad, and, well, you know.

I bring this up because I talk a lot about my grandmother's home, or what's left of it, here. Until I was 20, I thought the world of this woman. I would spend every Friday night at her home, the highlight of the evening was a standing date with Bo & Luke Duke. (Of course, I had to get through the Incredible Hulk first, and I'd always bury my eyes in the blanket at the slightest hint of green.) But my parents shielded me from the ugliness of the alcoholism that permeated through our family, so much so that I didn't truly realize the depth of the nastiness it spawns until I began to plan my first wedding.

I have two younger cousins, a year apart. One is blood related, one is the child of a previous marriage. I asked the non-blood related cousin to stand as a bridesmaid because she was the one I saw the most. (The other girl was often with her mother, caught in the turmoil of a particularly nasty divorce, so I didn't get to spend much time with her.) This resulted in me being, quite literally, disowned. Without discussion, without rhyme or reason. My last one-sided discussion with my aunt and grandmother involved them saying "We won't be at your wedding." And that was it. My father was so hurt, he stopped speaking to them. And it stayed this way for eight long years. A family ripped apart by my decision to choose a bridesmaid. It made no sense to me. I struggled to understand what I'd done to be so completely rejected by these women I had idolized my entire childhood. My father's explanation was quite simple.

"They've always been that way."

Fast forward to March, 2005. My beautiful daughter is born, and my entire perspective on life is completely changed. I received a baby gift from my estranged aunt. An olive branch. The closest I will ever recieve to an apology. Since I now understand the value of family, I want to mend the rift that has hurt me for so long. But I am cautious. I am sensitive. I am a cynic. Can people change? I don't think so. But we can approach them with caution, and not let them get into a position where they can completely destroy your ideals again. I don't want to poison my daughter with stories of how mean her grandmother & great-aunt were to me. I want her to know how much I enjoyed my childhood. I want to share my good times with her. I want to shield her from the kind of pain I endured when my family unexplicably abandoned me.

A baby brings a family together. A hurricane REALLY brings your family together.

My grandmother & aunt are fortunate enough to have found a house to rent, ironically, extremely close to my father. He checks on them occasionally. He helped survey their property. They have nothing in terms of belongings. During my last visit, I walked through my aunt's house, the stench of mold and mud overpowering. I had an eerie feeling, because I thought I'd never set foot in that house again. And there, on the mantle, is the only picture salvaged from the 15-foot wall of water with absolutely no damage. It's a picture of my grandmother, my aunt, me, and the blood cousin.

I try to live a good life. I try to be a good person. Now I will definately try harder.

Under Penalty of Death

Oh God, so help me, if I have to build another ad where the customer's logo is created out of the font Papyrus or Brush Script, I swear I will lose all fragile grips on my sanity and run through the streets screaming in frustration. There are HUNDREDS of THOUSANDS of typefaces out there; why not be a little more creative? If you're a graphic designer, and you use either of these fonts willingly, (that is, of your own free will without force or persuasion or threat to cancel an account that you require for this month's rent), PLEASE re-evaluate your job title, because you are NOT WORTHY. I will happily eat this post if anyone can find me an example where one of these two fonts is used in a current and classy way. ARRGGGHHH.

More Pictures from Pearlington

This photographer is absolutely amazing. His photographs say what I could not describe. He's traveling between New Orleans & Pearlington, taking pictures and telling the stories of the victims. Be warned; some pictures are not for the faint of heart.

http://operationeden.blogspot.com

Reports From Pearlington

A reporter for The Aspen Times is in Pearlington writing stories for the newspaper. I find it extremely interesting that the resort town of Aspen is interested in the tiny, little hole-in-the-wall city of Pearlington, but I am extremely grateful. Go to http://www.aspentimes.com and search for Pearlington. Scott Condon is the reporter.

A Few Thoughts on Looting

I work with a woman who was appalled by the looting that went on in New Orleans during Katrina. She swept about the office in a fit of rage, blathering about how awful looters were and how they deserved to be shot. Oh! The horror! Oh! The NERVE of those people, how DARE they take advantage of a desparate situation by taking things that did not belong to them and that they weren't entitled to!

Fast forward three weeks, with Hurricane Rita bearing down on Houston. In the aftermath, many Houston counties were declared disaster areas, entitling the residents to FEMA and Red Cross aid. The only damage this woman suffered was a power outage and a few downed trees. She recently blew through the office bragging about how much money she received from FEMA. Meanwhile, people like my grandmother who have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING left, receive the same amount in disaster aid. The television is constantly flashing pictures of people who have NO homes, NO clothes, NO belongings.

So, who's worse?
If you're going to judge, you'd better prepare to be judged yourself.

Goodbye childhood

I visited my old hometown a couple of weeks ago. Pearlington, Mississippi, for those of you who aren't familiar with it, is a tiny community nestled on the Pearl River right on the border of Mississippi and Louisiana. That's also the same path that Hurricane Katrina decided to follow. As I drove slack-jawed through what was left of my childhood, it didn't dawn on me that I only saw three structures still standing. My grandmother's home was leveled to the ground, her belongings scattered for miles. Admist the rubble sat a brand new tiller, it's shiny red paint defiantly taunting the skies. A fence sat two feet up in a nearby tree, the familiar vent of my grandmother's roof staring up like the eye of a battered corpse. The true reality hits you like a brick when you step out of the car... the stench of rotting sealife and saltwater rising from the thick layer of river mud that covers the ground. As I looked around, I struggled to imagine life as it was when I was seven, returning to my grandmother's house after Sunday morning church. But the church is gone. Someone retrieved the statue of the Virgin Mary and placed it on the concrete steps that used to lead into the small wooden church.

Down the road, a visit to my aunt's house brought more emotions to the surface. The house still remained, up inside, the stench of mold & mildew are overpowering. The water line left it's mark about two inches below the roof. Her refrigerator hangs precariously through the ceiling, washed into the beams by the rising water and left to hang as the water receded. It was surreal. Those who say that it resembles a bomb going off are right. There are no words to describe the hopelessness that you encountered while looking around.

All that remains of my old home is the front porch, where I remember so many good times. My parents decorating it for Halloween. Staring out the window of their bedroom at the Christmas lights. Riding my first bicycle up and down the sidewalk. All that remains of the beautiful yard my mother cultivated for years is the large oak tree, it's leaves washed away. I always assumed that someday I would be able to drive past the house and show my daughter, "This is where Mommy grew up." It was a harsh reminder that nothing in life is permanent, and we truly need to cherish what we have while we still have it. I know that's a big cliché, but tell that to my uncle who was camped out in my aunt's yard, who hadn't showered in days and now lives in a tent eating MRE's. I felt guilty returning to my nice, air-conditioned home in Houston.

Working Moms Need Respect, Too

I work overtime. When I say overtime, I'm talking over 80 hours a week. I get up at a 4:45am everyday, work out, get ready for work, sit in front of a computer for 8 hours designing stuff that I am ashamed to put in my portfolio, pick up my daughter from daycare, come home and clean my house, feed my dog, feed my kid (my husband is forced to fend for himself), play with my daughter for an hour or two, watch an hour of TV, then collapse into bed. EVERY SINGLE DAY. And I wonder, how do single mothers survive? Add the guilt trip of being a working mom (EVERYONE has an opinion about that one), and the fact that you're missing out on so many precious moments, and it's enough to send any mother into a downward spiral of post-partem depression.

My point? Tolerance & understanding. Take a moment to step into our shoes before you judge. Don't rub it in my face that you get to stay home with your little angel & imply that I'm a horrible mother because I don't. Do I want to leave my daughter with perfect strangers while I'm toiling away at creating crap that I would rather bury in my backyard? Of course not. But it's helping me get to a place where I CAN spend more time with her. And that makes everyone happy.