Put that cupcake down, Junior!

Fat. F-A-T. Fat. The other dirty eff word. Millions of Americans go to battle with it and next to quitting smoking, it’s probably the most loved New Year’s resolution.

I’m also guilty of falling prey to the big "F". I don my not-so-stylish workout gear, strap on the jog bra and Sauconys and off I go, sweating down one street after another. I even have a gym membership for days when the Puerto Rican sun kicks my ass harder than her streets do. That’s when a particular piece of news made me stumble.

Hear I was, cranking a solid 45 minutes on the elliptical, when my eyes just so happened to wander up towards one of the many 20-inch flat screen TVs suspended from the ceiling. Normally, workout time is when I unplug from everything other than my iPod. No television, no cell phone, no laptop with high-speed wireless internet. But that day, one particular news story just happened to catch my eye.

“Retailers to introduce plus-sized clothing for girls.”

Wha-?? My eyes are now glued to the screen as images of round not-so-little girls and boys whose chests resemble those of pubescent teenage girls flash by. I wait for the doctor/nutritionist/fitness guru to pop up and start his/her 10 commandments of healthy living, when this pops up instead:

“Expected to be a $35 million business.”

And that’s when I felt my insides start heating up and not because of the elliptical. I still wait for doc/nutri/fit guru to come on but instead, Britany Spears and yet another story of her custody battle fill the screen and all was lost again.

Only in America could $$$ take precedence over conscious behavior. Why isn’t more being done to stop this epidemic? And whose to blame? Is it parental lack of control? Their own bad habits rubbing off on their children? Have kids become wired to keep feeding themselves crap? Is it Ronald McDonald, the all-American pedophile, who's still molesting kids with Big Macs and Happy Meals?

Hell, I ate McD’s as a kid. But my folks made it clear that there was a strict line between “special treat” and “routine.” My parents also worked full-time. Having a family business is a 24/7 job, but my mom still made time to cook our meals from scratch using all natural ingredients.

Have parents become too busy to care these days? I know this generation of kids is spending more time on their butts in front of brainless crap TV, Xbox and MySpace. And if "Shaq's Big Challenge" weight-loss reality show has become the only source of inspiration to get kids up and moving and understanding the benefits of eating healthy, well, that’s just a shame. Shame on parents, that is.

It's hard to place blame on those who are still learning and understanding what's right and what's wrong, what's healthy and what's not. The job of educating children, setting guidelines and discipline, is that of adults. And if grown-ups can't get it right, what are kids to do?

Confessions of an unemployed wife.

Latley I've been throwing myself some pity parties. I'm usually the only one in attendance with the occasional appearance from my puppy. And as stimulating as our conversations are, I'm still left wanting more.

For instance, a job would be nice. Some place to go every day, y'know, kinda like a "routine." Get up every morning with a purpose. A somewhat clear picture of what my day is going to consist of. Hell, just to HAVE a reason to get up early (other than to walk the dog and workout) would be great.

But no. Not yet. Right now my days are filled with 1) walking the dog and working out (which I already mentioned), 2) getting my fill of Food Network and other life-enriching television shows, 3) surfing the net and obsessively checking my gmail, hoping some employer who said he/she thought I had a great portfolio would drop me a line saying how they couldn't wait for me to come work for them, 4) peeing, 5) trips to Walgreens/Starbucks/other major chains where I can waste my money on items I don't need, 6) napping, and 7) waiting for my husband to get home so I can have some human conversations in English (did I mention I live in Puerto Rico and know, oh, maybe five words of Spanish?).

Now before I get e-punched and told to e-"quit-your-bitching-you-live-on-a-Caribbean-island" let me remind you that it's much easier to judge when you're in some place other than my shoes. As I get defensive, let me also tell you that I do have goals other than finding employment. I want to learn Spanish, for instance, as well as French (there just happens to be an Alliance Française near my hood). I want to start painting again, experimenting with pastels and charcoal and channeling my hostility in a more artistic way. I want to become more diverse in my culinary skills (ahem, Food Network) and wow not only myself but my husband too, with all my savory creations.

I WANT TO DO ALL THESE THINGS.

Problem is, it's hard to get motivated when one major component is missing. A career is an anchor. And the right one will challenge you and make you want to pursue other things in life. Yes, work will take major time out of my week. But it will also push me to create time for all those other wonderful things I enjoy doing outside of work.

I know when my career is finally in full swing, I'll sometimes wish for a 25th hour in my day. And that's OK. Because I'll have achieved some much needed balance to my life.

Creatively challenged.

I have decided that I would like to be the following things this week:

1. Pastry chef
2. Handbag designer.
3. Interior decorator.

I'll let you know if I'm successful.

guh-ROSS

Traveling makes me feel dirty. Once I enter a plane, I now have the burden of carrying everyone else’s germs with me. As if every one of the thousands of asses that sat in my seat before me have now been imprinted onto my rear end. I have this immediate need to wash my hands, clothes and any other part of me that comes into contact with any part of the plane. And God forbid I cross contaminate. No way can my dirty, plane infested fingers touch any part of me that’s been saved by my clothing.

And it’s not like the airline industry makes it any easier. Fishing for the seatbelt through the crack between seats, lowering and raising sticky tray tables, and trying not to let the worn out fabric of my seat rub against my lower back/butt crack, because thanks to fashion designers everywhere low-rise jeans are the shit, can all get quite disgusting and exhausting.

Not a big fan of the re-circulated air either. Certain smells are only meant to be enjoyed in the privacy of one’s bathroom and have no right invading my nostrils over and over again.

Before you get the wrong idea, I’m not some über germophobe who suffers from a serious case of OCD and needs to wash her hands exactly fifteen times every sixty seconds. It’s just the idea of sharing long periods of time in close proximity to absolute strangers that starts to wig me out. And not just the current strangers. But also the ghosts of strangers before them. Knowing that every, single person has left a little, tiny bit of something behind. Spooky, eh?

Maybe I can start my own airline. I’d call it CleanAir. All the seats would have disposable seat covers that would be changed after each flight segment. The flight attendants would pass out hand sanitizing cloths once everyone was comfortably seated. The tray tables would be voice operated, and with two simple commands (“Down” and “Up”), would remove all need to touch them. The lavatories would be three times the size of current airplane lavatories, and would have those toilets with the built-in seat covers that automatically change when it senses a person in front of it. There would also be a bidet, y’know…in case someone needs it.

My airline would be every clean freak's dream come true. Sure it might cost $1,200 to fly from LA to San Francisco, but who wouldn’t pay that for cabin air that’s been cleaned with Oust®?

Oh to dream…

I am somebody! Really! I am!

Celebrities are famous. Pro athletes are famous. Even reality TV stars are sorta famous. Advertising creatives are not. Their work might be, but the minds behind the work are not. Even the greatest ad campaigns lack a face. Sure they may end up being a memorable part of pop culture, like the "Got Milk?" campaign, which sadly enough has spawned such creative rip-offs like "Got Fish?", "Got Wireless?" and my personal fave, "Got Jesus?".

Most times, if you're in this business or have some sick obsession with advertising, you'll know the agency behind the work but rarely the actual art director-slash-copywriter team who concepted day and night, sacrificing sleep and marriages, to come up with these little gems of ideas. Many creatives will tell you that they do it for the love of solving a client's problem in the most creative way possible. Or, that they couldn't find any use for their Communication degree and decided advertising could at least pay the bills.

But not so deep down inside, the actual reason why a creative becomes a creative is for the "fame." This sick need for recognition and approval from the advertising world. So that the gods (named Weiden, Goodby and Bogusky) will approvingly smile down upon them and one day offer them a job and some laughable amount of money.

The sad part is the only people who will see this "fame" are other creatives seeking out said "fame." They will log onto AdCritic.com, read Creativity magazine, study volumes of Archive and Communication Arts like they're the Bible, all so that they can cringe with envy and blurt out loud "Damn it! I had that idea first! Bastards!" and then crawl back into the comfort of their egos, sulking and licking their wounds, wishing and hoping that one day their names will also grace the same pages.

I know this because I am a creative. An Art Director to be exact. And like most creatives, I have become somewhat jaded. At least that's what I'm telling myself this week. You see, the problem is I'd like to think of myself as more than just an art director. That my creativity can spread it's love across many genres, not just design. That I too am a writer, a photographer, a filmmaker, etc., and that one label can't define my geniusness (see what I mean about the ego?).

Of course, before I decided all this, I had to get the approval from two of my girlfriends, RBrown and Virgo, who also happen to be talented creatives. (sigh) The cycle continues...

Q1 : Part Two

Though we were in mourning, my mom, bro and I still had to deal with an upcoming event scheduled for the end of Q1.

My wedding.

Here we were still reeling over having our world turned upside down and flat on it’s back, and now we had to think about my wedding??

My mother, brother and I deliberated. My fiancé and I deliberated. Our extended families deliberated. And we came to the conclusion that this wedding would still take place on the 17th of March. Out of respect for my father.

You see, my fiancé and I had decided that we should get married in India. It would be one, big, glorious event unlike anything our guests could ever experience in the U.S. So my dad went to India last October and booked everything. The temple, the breakfast/lunch venue, even different tailors for my wedding trousseau. I didn’t see a single picture of anything. I just took him for his word.

Keeping the wedding date was a little tribute to my dad. That even though he wasn’t here anymore in the flesh, at least his spirit could find the place where his daughter would be wed.

It was a bitter-sweet event. I almost felt guilty for getting excited or happy over things. Like my giddiness somehow meant that I was forgetting my father and the fact that he was dead. I don’t know. Being sad is exhausting. I think we all needed a little break.

The wedding itself was beautiful. I don’t know if it would have been as meaningful had this tragedy not happened. My family and my husband’s family felt so close to one another. There was no distinction between family and in-laws. The ceremony was by far the most special and a clear favorite of all the events during the three-day wedding.

Once everything was over and my husband and I were all wed, we were in dire need of an escape from India and people in general. So we headed for the Maldives. A honeymoon that turned me into even more of a spoiled brat than I already am. At the W Hotel Maldives, there was no difference between celebrity and Deepi-from-the-block. Everyone staying here was treated exactly the same: like royalty. I was pampered. I was massaged. I was fed free Cornetto ice cream several times a day. I even received my open water diving certification. And that’s when I realized I was destined to be a diver.

Yes. It’s true. The ocean loves me. And damn it, I love it right back! In five dives I managed to see an octopus, two sea turtles, several eels, a plethora of tropical fish and a beautiful, fragile coral reef. But the highlight was the manta dive. Oh man! These creatures (which spanned about twenty ft in width) were like something out of a sci-fi flick. They came towards us with a steady, rhythmic movement as if they were flying in slow motion under water. Absolutely. Freaking. Amazing.

After six incredible days, we were ready to leave our tropical oasis. I highly recommend the Maldives if you’re into clear turquoise water, white powder-like sandy beaches, and amazing wildlife, both on land and underwater. You know, the usual shit.

The husband and I made it back to the U.S. with a case of food poisoning (thank you Lufthansa) but in overall good health and all limbs attached. We then headed to our new home in Puerto Rico (well, new for me since the husband has already lived and worked there for four years). PR is also tropical but not the same tropical as the Maldives. Nothing can touch the Maldives. Nothing.

It’s been almost two glorious months since the husband and I became husband and wife. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m extremely lucky and blessed to have such a solid foundation in my life. With everything that I’ve gone through, the husband has been right there with both arms stretched out ready to comfort me and make me stronger. He is my partner and with all his quirks and goofiness, he’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Q1 : Part One

It's been a long time. A lot has happened since the start of the year and I very well could be talking to myself but hey, one's own company is still company, isn't it?

2007 started off on quite a different note than I'm normally accustomed to. Normally, the years have always started off a bit slow. Still recouping from Christmas and New Year's, the start of a new year feels like a big, giant stretch. Throw in a long, gaping yawn for good measure.

But this year, things started off on the rough side. My father suffered a massive heart attack and died on January 21. Very sudden, very surprising. We (meaning mother, brother and I) knew my dad had some heart issues, but he was on medication and it seemed like it was in check. Funny how that goes, eh? Maybe not. My father never conveyed to his family the severity of his condition. Was it out of protection for us? Was it out of fear of surgery or possible death? Was it because he thought it was fiction and that he needed a second opinion? Who knows. As blunt as this may sound, when it's your time it's your time. That's all we can tell ourselves.

They (whomever "they" are) tell you one goes through a series of emotions after losing a loved one. The denial. The anger. The acceptance. I have no clue where I stand in relation to those steps. I felt a whole lot of denial (and still do). I felt a shitload of anger (and still do). And I think I'm coming around to acceptance. At least that's what I'm telling myself. I don't know when it'll finally "hit" me. Right now we're just coping. Coping with all the daily crap that my father so easily left behind. Maybe I'm being rude or irrational. But it always seems greener on the other side, doesn't it?

He's gone. I miss him. My mother and brother miss him. That's all that's left.