Beautiful Barcelona

Barcelona, my first taste of Spain.

Our first night was spent in a local pub, amidst the locals, cheering on Barcelona to a victory over Real Madrid. What a fantastic, truly authentic experience that was. To find a local place to watch the match, we kept our eyes peeled for walking red and blue stripes. After a few minutes of shameless stalking, we found our "stadium." The small pub was filled with locals, the excitement and anticipation of the match coursing through the room. Perfecto.

Seating was at a minimum, so we squeezed into a corner, mixed in with Madrid and Barcelona fans (and what a lively mix). Sangrias in hand, we're ready for the game. Three local guys sit across from us -- one that speaks English, one that speaks baby English (the basics), and another that just smiles a lot. His actual name is German, he doesn't speak German, his dad is German, but he lives in Barcelona and speaks Spanish. Okay.

I got to practice my baby Spanish with the guys, asking them their name, where they're from, and their telephone number. (In high school Spanish, I made sure to remember the important phrases.) We learned Barcelona cheers, strained to see the television through the crowd of seatless fans, and finally celebrated a victory with high fives and toasts. Coming from a non-soccer player, this was one of the most amazing sports experiences I've ever had. Soccer presents such a different environment than football, baseball, etc. It's youthful, joyful, encouraging, non-Barbaric.

Walking outside and hearing the shouts and cheers of Barcelona's fans was surreal. The plaza right outside the pub was lit up with celebration, men hanging off lampposts proudly waving team flags, the whole mass of people yelling "Barca! Barca!" What an incredible moment that I'll never forget.

Ohhh, the food in Barcelona... Tapas are a must if you're in Spain. We landed at a tapas bar called La Flauta the first night. Red shrimp, cuttlefish, sautéed mushrooms and asparagus were eaten first, followed by Cabreos (egg style) coming out second. To make sure that we didn't leave hungry, we ordered mini baguette sandwiches filled with cured meat and local cheese. Mmmm. My favorite dish was Cabreos, hands down. The dish consists of what I like to call French fry potato chips (similar to hash browns but crispier), a semi-spicy sauce, and two eggs, cooked over easy, right on top. The waiter mixed the eggs in at the table, transforming the dish into a gooey concoction that looks suspicious but tastes amazing.

My first taste of Spain, literally and figuratively, was addicting. The beauty that is Barcelona is captivating -- the Spanish culture permeates the air, creating a sweet aroma that carries with it laughter, youth, and warmth.

Next up, Madrid.

A Dramatic Comedy

We left for Barcelona this morning from Carcassonne. We took the 8:05 train to Narbonne. In Narbonne, we realized our ticket was for the 7:40 train, not the 8:05 train. We missed the direct train to Barcelona. The fact that there really was an 8:05 train to Narbonne can only mean that God has a fantastic sense of humor. And the adventure begins...

After this devastating realization, we laughed at ourselves (reluctantly), shrugged our shoulders and went with it. The shortest way to Barcelona was to go to Cerbere, then on to Port Bou Espagne, then on to Barcelona, putting us there at 3:00 pm. Our only option... Okay, we'll take it.

An hour later, we board the train to Cerbere, but just barely. We're eating our chocolate croissants in the cafe and seeing what Rick Steves has to say about Barcelona when Ashley notices that our train has been delayed 15 minutes. Considering that it's a bit of a chore to carry our luggage up and down stairs, I recommended we leave then to find the platform. As we step out of the station, Ashley asks an employee for confirmation (you learn to ask a lot of questions when traveling). He says, "No, this train doesn't go to Cerbere you stupid Americans." He said it all in French, so I'm not positive, but I imagine that's what he said. Well I take off down the platform with no real purpose, I just felt that going straight seemed like the right direction to walk in. I hear Ashley yell my name, and as I turn, I see her climbing on board the same train that Pepe Le Pew said wasn't our train, and it's leaving NOW. If you've ever been left in a strange place (accidentally) by your parents when you were little, you know the fear that started creeping up. I take off, sprinting as fast as I can, polka dotted suitcase in tow, neck pillow swinging from the strap of my backpack like it was possessed.

Are you on the edge of your seat? You should be. It was dramatic. To ease your minds, I made it. I heaved my suitcase up in sync with my step up (this train had three steps to climb.. Awesome). As I was looking up (in utter exasperation) to find the next step, I felt myself falling backwards. The heavy polka dotted bag... I reached out for Ashley, just knowing that I was going to have to wave goodbye from a horizontal position on the platform. At the last second a surge of adrenaline hit, and I propelled forward, almost knocking Ashley down. To make it more fun, the doors on board (the ones in between cars that shut automatically and can be opened by pressing a button) closed after 5 seconds. No lie, 5 seconds. You better have your crap together if you want to get through those doors. Too bad we didn't... After a while, pressing the button just became fun. My foot got locked between the doors, my suitcase fell forward, my backpack fell violently to the floor, and Ashley got knocked into the luggage storage rack thanks to me and the bump of the train. A French couple looked at us like we were disgusting girls that needed to learn some etiquette. Blasphemy.

Could our day get any more interesting? Yes.

The station at Cerbere is a ghost town. Ghost towns only have vending machines. I get an Orangina (a really tasty Italian soft drink), and Ashley gets some coffee from a machine. She's brave, that one. I remember I have edible souvenirs from England and France in my bag, so we broke those out (sorry Dad). Almost two hours later, we get ready to walk to the platform to board our train. A little side note about our luggage... Ashley has spent the past three months in England, so she has some stuff. I packed light so that she could shift some things over to mine to lighten her load. Despite our efforts at consolidating, her luggage wheels have lost their will to live, and my bag has been expanded to its max and is front heavy. (It falls over a lot.) Call us wimps if you'd like, but I've never despised stairs more in my life. It's the same feeling I get when I know I have to run 5 miles. It's necessary, but requires mental preparation. Two French men (looked to be grandson and grandfather) witnessed the entertaining show we put on every time we climb up stairs. We carry our luggage up one case at a time. One of us grabbing the front handle of the case, the other lifting the bottom. It's quite effective. Lord bless them, they both grabbed a case and put it on the train for us when it arrived. Since we only had one stop to go, we left our luggage in the middle of the conjoining cars, but I put my backpack in the luggage rack.

We land at Port Bou Espagne, and our two strong angels help us get our luggage off the train. We purchase our tickets to Barcelona, start walking to the platform, and I think, "Why do I feel so light?" I let go of my suitcase (it falls over) and sprint to the last train we were on. I left my backpack! (I guess this is what your parents felt like when they realized that you were left in that strange place.) Luckily the train was still there and empty. An employee saw me running toward the train and motioned me on board. "Pink bag?!" I say this like he will 1) Understand English and, 2) Make my bag magically appear. He seems to understand and tells me to run down to the end of the train. I have no idea why I should run to the end of the train where I know my bag is not, so I start running through the cars looking at every luggage rack on the way. No pink bag. I step off the train with sunken shoulders when the same guy motions me to walk toward the back of the train where he is. He motions me on board where I see the conductor rummaging through my bag. "Merci!" I exclaim, while thinking silently that he better give me my stuff back. Being an American, I understand the threat an abandoned backpack can be, but a pink backpack with a Smurfs pin and a megaphone key chain that says 'Cheer' might be one to cross off the list.

Long story short, we're now on a train to Barcelona. Today may have been frustrating, but we haven't laughed this much since we started our journey.

Stowaway

Traveling by train is peaceful. One is allowed time to think, gazing out at the landscape as it flashes by in glorious green. When traveling by train in a foreign country, however, the barriers permitting you from enjoying this peacefulness can be too much, but increasingly entertaining. On our journey through France for instance, we missed our train by a second (really, a second), struggled with signs printed in French (characteristic of an arrogant American, my first thought was, "Why can't they print this in English?!"), and currently, we're on board a train to Narbonne as stowaways. Okay, not really. We paid for our tickets online, but due to machines that only take credit cards with chips in them (come on), we, um, have no tickets in hand. Needless to say, I thrive on adventure, so I'm eating this up.

Our stowaway story starts with the conductor (non-English speaking conductor) asking for our tickets. Of course we had no tangible tickets, so through the gallant efforts of Ashley and her memory of the language, game-winning charade moves, as well as the use of an e-mail receipt shown on a smart phone, we managed to ward him off for a few minutes longer. Like Arnold, he'll be back.

To be continued...

Take A France With Someone

On to France. We boarded a plane in London and flew into Marseilles. Because we're hard core adventure enthusiasts, we changed our travel plans in France at the last minute. (We had also been getting a lot of head tilts when inquiring about Marseilles. No one really had spectacular things to say about it, so we went with our gut.) We chose to keep our flight into Marseilles, take a train into Avignon and stay for a night, then take another train into Carcassonne the next day. This would help break up the train ride to Barcelona.

On the plane to Marseilles, we met a native named Sophie. She had just quit her job as an au pair in London. Apparently the woman she worked for was wretched and one of those mothers that believes her child can do no wrong (we all know one of those). Sophie had worked on improving her English while in the UK, and her level of speaking the language was very impressive. She had questions about America and the way we live, and we fired back with questions we had about France and the culture. She had traveled to New York and Miami before and said Miami was her favorite of the two. "Because of the beach," she said.

I think one of the best things about traveling is meeting new people, learning their culture, and gaining a new perspective. You're better for it.

After struggling to find a way to the train station (and someone that spoke English), we got on a bus that took us into Marseilles. I'd like to point out that those head tilts we got about Marseilles were for good reason. It wasn't something to write home about.

After a semi-short train ride, we arrived in Avignon. Here I have to close my eyes to make sure I can properly give the visible beauty of this city justice. I don't think I can, but let me try.

We emerged from the train station into another time. A medieval masterpiece stood before us. For Avignon, it's all in the details. The city center is surrounded by a stone wall (think castle), giving the exterior the look of a fortress. The train station is right across the street from the main entrance of the ancient city. Blue Christmas lights show the way in, but continue all the way down the road, as far as the eye can see. I felt like I was walking through a winter wonderland. It was breathtaking.

The cobblestone streets are shadowed by stone buildings, intricate with detail and architectural beauty. The doors to some of these buildings are as intricate as the stonework. Imagine giant wooden doors (maybe as tall as two pro basketball players stacked on top of each other), each one different than the other, but sharing a common beauty. One door in particular had immaculate carvings, while the other close by had gold ironwork (think the gates in front of Buckingham Palace). The spirit of Avignon is calm and peaceful, simplistically beautiful.

We stayed at one of the loveliest hotels I've ever seen. Le Boquiers is a family-run establishment that is as warm and inviting as its owners. Our room was on the third floor, the last flight of stairs being a wooden spiral staircase. As if the place couldn't get more charming, wooden beams (painted a happy green) adorned the ceiling of our room. A blue vase of sunflowers sat pleasantly in the corner. The bathroom had two white ceramic sinks mounted in a wooden table.

Dinner... Let me just brag about this for a few sentences. We went to a restaurant (it's a rule to only eat where the locals eat) called L'Epice and Love (pronounced "lay peace and love"). I immediately liked this place because the name is punny - a French-English play on words. The restaurant is smaller than your first apartment, but painted warm colors like orange and red that embrace you as you step inside. The owner Marie, an eclectic lady with a great smile, greeted us with "Bonsoire!" The menu was handwritten (in French), so our waitress (the only one in the place) patiently explained the items in broken English. Desperate to experience an authentic Avignon meal, we asked our waitress to choose her favorites. She led us on a taste-filled journey that left us wanting more despite our full bellies. The first course for me began with salad and baked goat cheese with honey. The first bite was creamy, sweet, rich, and smooth. I finished it quickly. I had never tasted anything more magnificent. Well, until the second course... I was presented with a filet of salmon covered in a basil and tomato sauce. The first bite melted in my mouth. After effortlessly cleaning my plate, dessert arrived in glorious form. Parfait au chocolate noir, a decadent chocolate cake floating atop a lake of creamy custard sauce, topped with real whipped cream. Heaven. The best meal I have ever eaten.

'Authentically Avignon' is what I'd use to describe our time there. The city is now one of my favorites.

If you visit France, don't stop at Paris. Venture to these smaller, history-filled cities to get a true feel for French culture. You will never want to leave.

London Calling

The lights of the city beckoned me from my perch up high. I'm back to where it all began. The city that gave me wings. London calling me home.

The second time is always more familiar, but still surprising. Walking through the streets was like sinking into a pile of pillows. The curves and lines of the city's structures were just as beautiful as I remembered. I could still feel the history, the grandeur, the majestic spirit that can only be London. The men walking down the sidewalk looked more like GQ models strutting down a runway. The proper English accents floating in the air made me want to catch one and claim it as my own. The focused taxi drivers made me realize that a chicken would never have the courage to cross these roads. All the parts of this great city make me feel alive and well. Words could never truly express the feelings I have.

Ashley, my fearless traveling companion, found us an old, but clean, hostel a few blocks away from the British Museum. We were hoping to have the room to ourselves, but what a pleasant surprise when we came in late one night to discover an additional traveler. Evelyn, this fabulous Parisian woman, was propped up on pillows, eyeglasses steady at the tip of her nose, reading a novel with 'American' in the title. (I still can't recall what the full title was.) When she learned we were American, she perked up and a smile spread across her graceful face as she ran her fingers through short auburn hair. She looked to be in her late 50s, but I know to never ask a woman her age, especially a Parisian. She was traveling alone, and because I have an over-active imagination, I immediately set to work at dreaming up her story.

Door number one says she's a French spy, using hostels and age to hide her ability to snap a man in half. Door number two says she's a woman still very much in love, returning to the place where she was first swept off her feet. She was dispatched to London during the second world war, where she nursed Edward, a British soldier with a clever laugh and strong will, back to health. She did her job so well that Edward's physical strength returned, but his love for her grew stronger than 1,000 men. (Seeing as how she'd have to be considerably older than she is for door number two to be believable (and real life isn't a chick flick), let's knock on door number 3.)

She's an adventure seeker, a brilliant woman with an organic courage to explore the unknown. She relies on her heart to guide her steps, which never fails to take her to the most beautiful places. I surely hope this story is truth. If so, we are kindred spirits, Evelyn and I.

Bigger Than Small

He wakes before the sun.

All three brothers rise together, clambering out of the bed they share in a small room in the back of the house.  Cotton won't wait for anyone.    

Fingertips are bloody by noon.  With the sun burning overhead, he wipes his brow and looks toward the house.  Mama walks toward them, dust like a cloud forming around her as her worn shoes skim the earth.  Time for lunch.  

His first love is football.  He owes everything to the sport that gave him hope.  To play he pays his father $75, the amount of money his absence costs in the cotton field.  To be bigger than small, nothing costs too much. 

--

My father grew up poor, but he was rich with ambition.  He instilled in me and my brothers a desire to succeed, to dream big and pursue relentlessly.  "Don't quit," he said.  We never have.   

Your roots hold you steady while you grow tall.   

Fighting Irish Out of the Fight?

Notre Dame: the name itself represents times gone by, a legendary football club with names like Knute Rockne, Ara Parseghian, and Lou Holtz.  However, in today’s money market, legends are forgotten and new names are called.  Some would never dare compare Longhorn football to the classic elegance of Notre Dame, but when it comes to network deals and winning seasons, the luck of the Irish seems to have run out. 

Notre Dame football is the school’s only sport showcased on NBC, the football team being an independent team that doesn’t intentionally overshadow conference teams or smaller brands like the Texas Longhorns do because, well, they’re it.  In June 2008, NBC renewed its television contract with Notre Dame through the 2015 season, with the 2010 contract reported to be worth $9 million a year.  Losing games translates into declining viewers, and although not a huge expense compared to its other agreements, NBC is now finding the deal with Notre Dame hard to justify.    

UT football is the unofficial mafia leader of the Big 12, taking advantage of its size and blanketing weaker brands like Baylor and Iowa State.  The rest of the Big 12 family has been written out of the will entirely, forced to stand by while its powerful big brother takes over the estate.  The much anticipated Longhorn Network provides coverage of all Longhorn athletes and guarantees the school $300 million over 20 years, revenue that is pocketed directly into the already deep pockets of the University.  However, any network proves useless if it’s unavailable to its viewers.  DirecTV spokesman Robert Mercer stated, “We understand Longhorn has other programming that may be of value to a small segment of our customers, but two UT football games do not constitute a network."

Perhaps the one thing Notre Dame and UT have in common is a small viewing audience, albeit for two different reasons.  Notre Dame needs to figure out how to win on the field, and UT’s Longhorn Network has to prove itself worthy of being picked up by accessible providers. 

Business exists to make a profit.  Ethics aside, the Longhorns know money, they understand the value of their brand, and every move is strategic.  With approximately 90% of the football team being native Texans, fans are plentiful and loyalty abounds.  If ESPN and UT can effectively promote their product to national and accessible providers, we won’t even be writing about the sustainability of the Longhorn Network when renewal time appears. 

For Notre Dame, however, the green leprechaun is still in the room.  Considering the facts – last year’s Army game only pulled a 1.0 Nielsen rating among 18- to 49-year-old viewers with CBS crime reruns stealing the votes, Notre Dame has finished its season ranked 10th or higher just three times in the 17 years its home games have been televised on NBC, and with NBC’s, or rather Ebersol and Schanzer’s track record of fighting for the Irish – Notre Dame will be divorced from NBC in 2015.  Notre Dame’s warriors within NBC have abandoned ship, and with ratings and wins still declining since the last renewal in 2008, a third chance to renew in 2015 will be revoked.  Mediocre isn’t worth millions.             

My prediction: Notre Dame will join a conference, relish in the past, and hope for a better future.  Their followers aren't extinct yet, but most are watching if nothing better is on, or if Notre Dame is playing a notable opponent.  Considering their performance during the Michigan State game, the best time to watch is at the very end of the 4th quarter. 

   

Come. Sit. Conquer.

Who says you have to work in a cubicle where your ideas soon become as stale as the company coffee and your cube-mate likes to eat all-things-garlicky and then talk about how pathetic his love life is?  If that sounds like your day at the office, Grind Spaces is a breath of fresh air.

What:  "A members-only workspace and community dedicated to taking all of the frustrations of working the old way and pulverizing them to a dust so fine it actually oils the wheels of the machine."

Why:  “Grind was built for free radicals who would rather work in a community than a company.”

You have a space that is open from 8 a.m. to midnight, you’re surrounded by interesting people (that you obviously have at least one thing in common with), and you’re immersed in a new work environment that is arguably not even a “work” environment at all.  Thankfully for me, agency life can provide this same springboard for creativity (which is why advertising is so shiny), but I fear that some employees in other industries see their job as just a job rather than an opportunity to let loose and produce pretty things. 

Of course this space isn't suitable for the masses, but how refreshing it would be for many souls to ditch the monotony of office life and hang out in a cool space with cool people, simultaneously producing clever, innovative ideas.  Change your environment, change your life?  Quite possibly so.

Lovely isms:
“If it ain’t broken, make it better anyway.”
“Love what you do or do something else.”
“Nobody’s ever won a rat race.”

Does size matter?

Mark Pollard, SVP and Director of Planning Innovation at Saatchi and Saatchi and CEO of Stealth Magazine, voiced the following:

The big idea versus small idea debate is dumb.  In reality, there are only ideas and "some thoughts I've had."  He defines an idea as "the bringing together of things that don't normally exist together in a way that makes better, more useful sense. An idea is the output of this act."  A changing world calls for changing ideas.  From a planner's perspective, ideas should be in the strategy from the very beginning.  Whether they're big or small shouldn't matter, what matters is, is any of this good? 

Why you shouldn't limit your ideas (according to Pollard):
1. If you're a planner and you're not putting ideas into strategies, I really don't understand what your role as a planner in an agency is. The role is supposed to be about the un-obvious made poetic and compelling.
2. Ideas (big and small) should be riddled into everything; a new twist or turn can be added to all executional elements.
3. The more I do this job, the less I believe in one strategy; execution makes strategy live or die. More rapid and earlier exploration of multiple strategies and creative ideas together is something worth exploring.

"The big idea versus small idea debate is not worth having - I truly hope it disappears so we can focus on the power of great thinking - and making it happen as often as possible."

My turn:
Size doesn't matter.  There may be an initial idea that is affectionately called "The Big One," but if you look at the entirety of a campaign, from its conception to its execution, smaller ideas are only added to "The Big One", increasing it's size but, more importantly, improving its quality.  The "big idea" is a springboard, a rocket launcher, a slingshot.  The "small ideas" keep it flying. 

When the BIG idea talks:

It says to clients, “Rest assured, I will not lead you off a cliff.”

It says to consumers, “I know the brainpower it took to make you tweet about how great I am.”

It says to agencies, “Build on me if you want to look really smart.”

The BIG idea isn’t something to be tossed aside because it does have a reassuring voice, but when coupled with a war-worthy strategy and smarter, albeit smaller ideas, it turns into the Goodyear blimp.

The Magnolia

Today marks the first day of my last semester of college... Well, until I decide to come back for that sacred PhD.  (Mom always wanted a doctor in the family.)  Looking back at my reflection, I can’t help but think about how I got here today.
   
I never fully appreciated growing up in a small town until just recently.  It was always the thing I was ashamed of—living in a town with an abundance of stop signs and a never-ending grapevine of gossip.  The town mayor was my bus driver, softball coach, and teacher.  Thoughts are narrow, minds closed, babies and marriage... The problem was that I never felt like I belonged.  I judged everyone that didn't think like me (embarrassed now to admit that).  I thought settling down before the age of 26 was preposterous, and feminism was a trait rather than a movement.  Career was my priority, and I couldn't get away from "this hell hole" fast enough. Then I flew to London... 

My whole demeanor changed.  Ironically, I left for London on my 21st birthday.  The day I arrived in London was America's Independence Day... my independence day.  I studied for a month abroad, traveling to Normandy, Paris, Venice, Florence, Rome... In a word—magnificent.  I came back to the States with confidence, an open mind, a respect and appreciation for different cultures, and a strong desire to return to Europe.  I left my heart in London.  (Too dramatic?)  Despite gaining an understanding and appreciation for people that weren't like me, I still condemned the people "stuck" in my small town.  I couldn't understand why they didn't want to experience the world, or how they could be content with life as it was.  As a hoity-toity world traveler, I knew that there was so much more to life than cow-tipping, Piggly Wiggly, and high school football games.  Then I moved to Austin...

My nickname is Beth Ann.  Immediately you get that I'm from the South.  Come on, I have two names.  Introducing myself to fellow Texas AdGrads was a fun time (insert sarcasm).  They hail from cities and countries all over the world—Seattle, Boston, Italy, Los Angeles, Russia, and New York.  They had grown up in places that I had only dreamed of visiting.  I was intimidated, so I hid my roots.  Covered them up the best that I could.  What I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t just covering up my background; I was covering up a place and a group of people that heavily influenced the person I am today.  Then something clicked…   

Growing up in my small town taught me to value every opportunity that I’m given, count every friendship as a blessing, enjoy the simple things, and be proud of who I am and what I stand for.  Dad showed me how to work hard and trust in something that I couldn’t see.  My brothers taught me how to laugh and be independent.  Mom gave me a spirit of kindness and raised me to be a proper Southern belle.  Some of my best friends still live there—the kind of friends that love you for your faults and will call just to make sure you’re okay.  

So.  I’m from Mississippi.  My high school graduating class had 64 people.  I love the smell of fresh cut grass and miss the sound of rain on a tin roof.  I’ll never forget the cow I named Oreo; she’s buried in the back pasture.  Rolling a tree is an art form.  Mama’s banana pudding and sweet tea hits the spot every time.  When I was a little girl, Daddy's nightly ritual was sharing graham cracker and peanut butter sandwiches with me while sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.  My brother attached my little red wagon to the riding lawnmower so that I could be “chauffeured” around the yard.  

"Mississippi is like my mother. I am allowed to complain about her all I want, but God help the person who raises an ill word about her around me, unless she is their mother too." -Kathryn Stockett, The Help 

Smart Social: Chipotle, Bacon, and Vegans

Bravo to Chipotle for taking advantage of social media to soothe a few disgruntled non-pork eaters.  Although the chain clearly informs the public on its website of the presence of pork fat in its beans, in-store menus fail to indicate the "porkiness of the pinto."  Food line assemblers are only required to inform the consumer if he/she orders a burrito without other meat.  Seth Porges, an avid pork avoider (due to religious reasons), turned to Twitter to voice his concerns.  His beloved Chipotle, to which he's been a loyal customer for several years, never told him why the delicious pinto beans were so delicious.  You'd think after years of eating the same pork-infused beans he would have heard an oink?  Or oinked...  Anyway, Twitter was the medium that Mr Porges used to voice his disbelief (somewhat dramatically).  And I quote, "After more than a decade of ordering Chipotle pinto beans, I was told they have bacon.  As a non-pork eater, I feel ill."  Well Mr. Porges, hold it in and darn a smile because the CEO himself, Steve Ells, is here to huff and puff and blow the house down.  Ells responded immediately, assuring Porges that Chipotle would change its in-store menu to clearly communicate the presence of pork fat in its beans.  (Of course Porges squealed with delight.)

As a future advertiser, I applaud the speed at which Chipotle responded, proving that staying in-the-know of social media is a requirement for every business hoping to keep its customers happy.  Social networks have become the main mic and can reveal valuable insights into how consumers are feeling, what they're thinking, and what they'd like to see happen.  Also, the value of an advocate is really invaluable, priceless even.  If I were Steve Ells I'd look at Porges' followers, find out whom he's influencing.  I'd bet that Porges had the loudest oink but like-minded listeners.  If the chief's happy, the tribe's happy. 

Happy Birthday, Crazy Aunt Betty.

I’m a private talker but a transparent writer.  It can’t be helped.  My voice is as quiet as a church mouse, sounding more like a 9-year-old little girl than a 24-year-old college graduate, but it comes out alive and strong on paper.  Now I've tried speaking up, but it sounds like I'm yelling.  Scares people.  So I talk like I was intended to.  

My singing voice, though, is a whole different story.  I sing just like I write.  Loud, grown up, exposed, and confident.  It’s like all this sass that I have is let loose.  The real me is blasted at full volume, and it feels good.  Like taking a deep breath of fresh air and letting it all out.  I imagine it’s also like how a bird feels when he’s flying high above the world, no one to bother him, or tell him what to do.  All there is to do is just fly.  Ever since I was a little girl, nose stuck in a book in my “secret room”, which was really just a cardboard box, I’ve wanted to fly.  Wings spread wide, heart pounding, the horizon as big as I can dream it.  Stories took me places, away from the arguing and yelling and far from the small town with its narrow thoughts.  I know now why I have such a love affair with travel and adventure, novels and writing.  

My favorite question to ask is "why?"  Drove my parents crazy when I was little.  "Why does brudder (brother) smell funny?" or "Why can Mamaw take her teeth out?" or "Why can't I take my teeth out?"  Curiosity didn't kill the cat, old age did.  Life is too short to stop asking questions, and it's definitely too short to stop living life.  Get your Caramel Frappucino with whip, jump from a plane strapped to a man with a parachute, and be relentlessly curious.   

To be curious you've got to be a little bit crazy.  This blog was born to make my crazy transparent.  Here's to the Crazy Aunt Betty living inside of all of us.