Tuesday, July 25, 2006
I don’t think I’ve been this weirdly excited about glasses since the third grade when I got my first pair: round, bubblegum pink metal frames, with multi-colored specks across the top. They were called “Confetti” and I was damn proud of them. After months of squinting and sitting a foot away from the TV, I was going to be able to see again. And my nerdiness would be official. “I like books,” those cotton-candy glasses screamed. “I get straight As!” (Well, except for in PE, where I had a perpetual “NI—needs improvement” and was the bane of Coach Caruso’s life.). Unlike the other girls who were petrified of being called “four-eyes,” I saw my difference as a virtue. Each afternoon at recess, while they practiced their cheers and discussed crushes on boys named Joey and Mike, I sat on the sidelines reading Edgar Allen Poe stories with my equally dorky, equally bespectacled friend Greg. They may have had spirit, but we had the vocabulary of a 13-year-old at age 8.
Over the years my love for my glasses evolved with my personality. Like any other middle schooler, my desire for popularity and attention from boys grew more and more urgent. In 8th grade I discovered, through the magic of straightening irons, make-up, and contact lenses, that I was actually quite pretty under that frizzy-haired nerdy mess. So away went the glasses, to be worn only at home with my family. Within weeks I had my first boyfriend—Victor, a tall high school freshman with dimples and a really cool bike. That sealed the fate for my specs—and for the next few years I associated glasses with that dorky, friendless girl sitting on the side of the playground. My adolescent insecurities evidently causing me to forget that I had actually been quite happy during that time.
But it all changed junior year. An eye surgery prohibited me from wearing contacts for three months. I was devastated, convinced that they made me look unattractive. But something—or rather nothing—happened. My friends treated me the same. I still got asked out, and while I occasionally had to remove them during basement make-out sessions (for logistics, not aesthetics), my glasses just became a part of me. My newfound confidence had me laughing at the scene in How to Marry a Millionaire where Marilyn Monroe’s blind-as-a-bat character opts to spend her days bumping into tables rather than risk turning-off a potential suitor by wearing glasses. How silly, I thought, that a bombshell like Marilyn Monroe would actually think that a tiny pair of frames would dull her beauty. I started to really believe what I’d always kind-of known: that the things glasses symbolize—intelligence, wit—are not adverse to physical beauty. I began obsessively noting eyeglass-wearing role models like Lisa Loeb and MSNBC reporter Ashleigh Banfield, and basing my eye-wear selection after them.
It wasn’t until college, however, that I realized the ironically seductive power of those two delicate lenses. Subtler than a pair of stilettos and certainly more unexpected than a low-cut shirt, years of history had imbued them with an unmistakably erotic air. Consider the archetypes: librarians, teachers, schoolgirls. The sexiness is in the contradiction. Like my cigarettes, they became a prop. I’d pull them out for job interviews, exams, or those nights when I wanted to play the naughty librarian. To this day, the most attractive man who has ever hit on me did it on a night when I was sitting at the bar, smoking in my black plastic frames. “Those glasses are driving me wild,” he whispered in my ear. I turned my head and looked at him over the top rim. It was physical male perfection of the kind you usually see on the side of busses or the pages of glossy magazines. He was a friend of a friend that I’d been convinced would never look my way. I let him buy me a drink and later that night we proved Dorothy Parker’s famous couplet wrong—men do indeed make passes at girls who wear glasses…
“Damn,” said the security guard when I walked back into the lobby this afternoon. I was wearing the new frames—red, metal, slightly cat-eyed. “You look fine in those! Like a professor or lawyer or something…Like a whole different person…” I laughed, but part of me knew what he meant. I do feel a little different when I’m wearing them—a little more confident, a little more secure. Maybe it’s because they now remind me what it was like to be that bookish 8-year-old girl who knew what she liked and didn’t really care what anyone else thought.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Invariably, when I forget the name of an actor, I’ll try to explain who he or she is by referencing his or her least recognizable acting project. I’ll say something like, “Oh you know, he was in that movie where he was a press agent and found the girl dead in his bathtub. Heroin overdose… You know, who I mean? He’s Italian… Did that other movie where he played Keanu Reeves’ dad…He was in the Merchant of Venice…” My friends will look at me kind of wild-eyed and confused, “Are you talking about Al Pacino?” “Yup…Pacino,” I’ll say and continue with my story. My friends just look at me and ask, “You couldn’t have said Scarface? The Godfather? Scent of a Woman?”
Just this past weekend, for example, I was telling my friend how shocked I was to learn that Haley Joel Osment is not only old enough to drive, but that he’s apparently poor and drives a ’95 Saturn. But I couldn't recall his name. I did, however, remember that he played the “weird boy” in Secondhand Lions and that he was that “robot kid” in that “robot movie.” My friend doesn’t really discriminate when it comes to movies so after a moment of thinking he knew exactly who I was talking about, but he did point out that the line “I see dead people” would have communicated my point far more effectively.
I know this, but I just can't help myself. I’ll make odd references to a Shakespeare in the Park play I saw when I was 9 (“Remember? He was Mercutio…”) or an underwear ad (that’s how I recently described Matthew Perry—as “the guy from that Hanes commercial”). In a bookstore not too long ago, I described Robert Duvall (yet another Godfather alum) as “the guy that likes to dance tango and has an ‘al’ sound in his name…He played a televangelist once…” [I got the tango info from an Oprah interview he did about 10 years ago.] I'm generally a pretty strong communicator, but for some reason, when placed on the spot I’m completely incapable of remembering the names of the classics. All that come to my head are crappy Sunday afternoon movies like Bed of Roses or The Peacemaker.
I wonder if this has anything to do with the fact that I can’t afford HBO…
Friday, July 21, 2006
Earlier today I contacted a PR rep at Burson-Marsteller who referred me to an associate in the Corporate Communications department at Sony Electronics. I e-mailed her and just received a response. She informed me that the reason why we have been unable to find out any information about this song is because it was an original composition commissioned by Sony for the commercial. So, unfortunately, this means that we probably won't be able to download it from iTunes any time soon.
I hope that this helps provide a bit of closure for those of you who have been desperate for information about this song. And I hope that, even though the mystery has been solved, you'll still keep visiting the blog.
I also came across this webpage for the Handycam featuring a Flash video of the commercial. It's the best that I've found online so far--although it's significantly cut down from the TV version. If you play around on the site you'll find several pictures of the girl. I also found out that Sony Handycam is an official sponsor of PBS Kids, which makes me wonder if the song might be from a PBS Kids show. I'll look into this lead and, as always, keep you posted. Please keep those e-mails and comments coming.
If you don't know what any of this is about. Check out these previous entries regarding this commercial:
But I was just the aardvark!
That Sony aardvark...again.
UPDATE: Case closed.
You'll be surprised how different and good flirt is! Where else could you have a "latin lover" with "big balls"? Our menu is fun, but our sushi is serious!
Sent via BlackBerry from Cingular Wireless
(I love that this message came from a BlackBerry...oh, the irony)
There are so many [snide] things I could say right now, but I think I'm going to hold my tongue for once. However, I am now determined to make a visit to Allendale the next time that I am in New Jersey. I'll write a full review and see just how serious their sushi really is (and how hot their waiters are...).
Guess which I clicked on first...
I've written before about my summers at nerd camp. Each spring I would receive piles of brochures from various nerd camps organizations that I had written to for information earlier in the year--places like CTY (which the Slate writer attended) and the Summer Institute for the Gifted (which I did). I found most of them in the back section of The New Yorker or advertised in my Cricket magazine. Others would be sent to me automatically for scoring in the top 5 percont of whatever standardized test we had been required to take that year. Occasionally, a teacher would recommend me for a particular camp or course. As a weird, dorky girl with a strange love of mail, nerd camp brochure season was a delight. I'd spend hours poring over the brochures, reading course descriptions, creating possible schedules, and writing application essays.
Unlike other kids, my summer camp fantasies were of air conditioned college classrooms, the hum of a slide projector, and best of all--the company of kids who like me, preferred learning over playing tag. The Slate writer expresses this sentiment perfectly: "But what I remember is less the hum of the quadratic equation in the air—though there was plenty of that—than the sense of relief at finally being in a place where people felt, in some sense, normal. It was a place where kids could be cool without having to downplay their interests." She remembers nights spent discussing nuclear proliferation that reminded me of the whispered midnight conversations I had with my SIG floormates.
Even more accurate is her recollection of "mandatory fun time," during which we nerdy campers were required to participate in two torturous hours of "fun" recreational activities. I'm assuming that this was based on some kind of government regulation requiring at least a minimum 5-to-1 flourescent lighting to sun ratio. I can imagine the horrific task it is to organize social activities for the socially awkward. For the kids who are dying to spend the summer taking robotics courses or learning latin, there is nothing worse than being forced to spend time engaged in less intellectual, more physical pursuits. At SIG, our schedule went like this: Breakfast, Class 1, Class 2, lunch, 2 hours of "fun time," Class 3, Class 4, dinner, evening activity. The SIG program that I attended was held on the Vassar College campus in Poughkeepsie, NY-- a gorgeous, sprawling campus of rolling hills, grassy noles, and hundreds of trees that we were specifically warned "not to climb" (as if we actually would want to). We could choose from organized activities like hiking and volleyball, or "free activities," like swimming or tennis. I quickly learned that if you chose "free activities," nobody would check up on what you did, so I was able to sneak back into my climate-controlled dorm room to spend two happy hours reading Jane Austen novels. On Saturdays we went on field trips to nearby museums, amusement parks, or fairs. We generally had a selection to choose from and I happily chose the NY Renaissance Fair, year after year. (I still have a box full of paper "medallions" somewhere at home.)
So yes, while I'm the first to admit that I may have missed out on some of the healthy, more outdoorsy benefits of a normal camp experience, I still wouldn't trade my dorky summers for the world...
Enjoy the articles.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Not too long ago I posted an entry about the Washington Post Date Lab, sharing some of my answers to their questionnaire and poking fun at the e-mail I received from one of the editors. Sure enough, a couple days later I received an e-mail from said editor. She had found my blog in an act of self-Googling and e-mailed me about it.
Well...it's happened again. A couple months ago I posted an entry making fun of the menu at Flirt, a sushi bar in Allendale, NJ. Today I found an e-mail in my spam box from firstname.lastname@example.org. Apparently, an employee or possibly the owner of Flirt did a little self-Googling and found my entry about the restaurant's menu. I'm sure you'll find this as entertaining as I did. (It's almost better than the menu!)
Glad you "enjoyed" our ad...before you "knock" something, you might want to try it first.I guess I have to say that if the advert caught your eye, it served its purpose.
It would be a pleasure to "flirt" with you if you're ever in the area. You might even develop a "crush" with one of our waiters?! There's a few hot ones here!
Hmmm...I've officially been propositioned by a sushi bar. And not just any sushi bar...a NJ sushi bar with a thing for punctuation (specifically the quotation mark). How many girls can say that? Well at least I know that if the Post doesn't come through for me, Flirt and I can give it a go...
Monday, July 17, 2006
It took me several tries, and I apologize to those of you who found what appeared to be a completely new blog each time you checked it this past weekend. I was experiencing a severe case of Schizophrenia Blogiosis, which I invented, self-diagnosed, and treated with a combination of Diet Coke, cold pizza, Erykah Badu, and cascading style sheets (that's patent pending, kids--hands off). I'd say it was successful, but only time will tell...this could just be remission.
My wonderful friend Vanessa (my other half, the IG)is using her groovy artistic talents to turn me from anonymous blogger girl to animated blogger girl. I'm not going to post a real photo, because, as a very good friend wisely noted recently, "anonymity is a superpower these days." (And he knows his superpowers...)
Of course, I suppose I shall be forced to shed my cloak of invisibility and reveal my secret identity at the upcoming DC Bloggers Happy Hour. Oh, and here's a question for the seasoned vets in the audience: Am I going to have to introduce myself as "Alejandra from Sent from My Dell Desktop"? As if I don't already have enough syllables in my name... And do people go by their real names--or by their blogger names? That would actually be kind of cool...kind of like a superhero conference...except with laptops instead of costumes...
I'm such a trout...(that's web-speak for newbie, you much cooler than I readers)
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Good luck with the blog, Yousef!
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Oh and feedback on the options would be most appreciated...
Friday, July 14, 2006
Yesterday, a reader named Greg stumbled onto my blog by way of the Washington Post Technorati links. I'm not sure if he was having a bad day and looking to pick a fight or if it's just that his sense of humor is such that he is incapable of understanding my subtle brand of wit, but he seemed to have a big problem with my earlier post about Disney's usage of the phrase "cast members" to describe their employees. Perhaps he gained his start as a concession stand clerk and still feels a great debt to the Mickey and his crew. Perhaps he had a tragic experience on a rollercoaster. Perhaps he's just bored...
Regardless of why, he evidently took my snide commentary to heart. He then moved on to my post about my friend Howard's marathon training and efforts to raise funds for Breast Cancer research. I must admit that I'm still not quite sure exactly what part of that post he found offensive--my urging friends to donate to a good cause? Perhaps it's just the fact that I didn't discuss the crime emergency in full detail and just linked to a Post article? Really...I'm at a loss for what set him off. (If you're reading this Greg, please clarify.)
But something did...and a brilliant comment war ensued in which he told me that I was "sick" for joking around about the Disney "cast member" and implicitly hoped that I get murdered. When I reminded him that I have his IP address (for a brilliant, detailed explanation of why I have this information, check out this post from Kathryn) and that it would probably be best that he not wish me any harm, he responded with his trademark brand of ad hominem attack in a comment beginning "Alejandra, you ignorant slut..." (Which instantly made me wonder if he'd recently read this fantastic NY Times article.) He also called me a "pimp," (a pimp and a slut--what would the union say?) questioned the integrity of the NYC Marathon fundraising department, and insulted the entire District of Columbia. Really this guy's a class act who, given the number of chips on his shoulder, is single-handedly keeping the entire state of Idaho in business.
I'd like to stop now and thank Greg for literally making me laugh out loud with that last comment. I think it's probably because since sometime around 1 PM I started imagining Greg as a sort of bitter Stewie Griffin (although nowhere near as cool). So check out the comment thread and, just for fun, try reading them to yourself in a Stewie voice.
It's wonderful...trust me.
So thanks for everything, Greg. I told you we were going to get along really well...
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Ozio, NSync, and shots of Bacardi 151--Oh yeah, 19-year-old Matt and Ale had killer taste in...well...nothing it seems...
Actually, who am I kidding? I still love the song (and Bacardi, but Ozio--not so much...)
In other DC blogger news, I'd like to thank I-66 for adding sent from my dell desktop to the Yeah, so I'm... blogroll. DC seems to have a great blogging community and I'm hoping to meet some of you at the upcoming summer blog happy hour.
Whether I'll remember you afterwards is still yet to be determined...
*She may not have discriminating music tastes, but she's a good girl--and she can be all yours if you want her... Seriously, just let me know...
Howard is probably one of the cleverest men I know and the only person who might actually read more than I (although he has a nasty habit of not giving certain books back). He's back home in London now, but we met a couple summers ago in NY when I interned in his department at a Very Important news organization. I charmed the hell out of him with my wit and strategically low-cut shirts (oh, I was sooo that intern).
Anyway, I got a message from him this morning about the DC "crime emergency" advising me to take extra care of my "fine chassis." (I'm such a sucker for good use of vocabulary). I thought that was rather sweet and so I figured I ought to give his fundraising efforts a bit of a plug. He's always been a strong supporter of women's breasts, so I wasn't at all surprised to hear that he is willing to come all the way from London to run a full 26.2 miles for them...
He's committed to raising $5,000 and is just over half his goal. Click here to help him get a bit closer.
Good luck, Reesy...
Monday, July 10, 2006
I’m in New Jersey today sitting at the kitchen table and drinking tea like I’ve done hundreds of times before. It’s weird how something so safe and familiar can at the same time seem so strange and foreign. I visit all the time…almost once a month, but it’s always odd being “home” after not living here for so long. Five years. Five years since I thought of this house and this zip code and this phone number as home. Now it’s my parents’ house. Like hearing a popular song playing in another room—you know the lyrics, you know the melody, but it’s too far away to really enjoy…
Something just seems …off…
I have a brother at war. Actually, I don’t know why I said that like that…like it’s 1942 and I’m the oldest in a family of 12. We’re the only two. Since he left, my house has become an homage to Gab—yellow ribbons, e-mail print outs, pictures everywhere. My mom even keeps a yellow candle burning for him—you know the kind. The tall yellow pillar in a glass holder. You get them in the Goya aisle at the supermarket, or, if you live in a city, at the corner bodega. The mirror in my room—what was once my room—is covered with his face: his high school graduation picture, he and his girlfriend, baby photos. I had to move them aside to check my lipstick. Am I jealous…a little bit. Mostly I just miss him. At church tomorrow they’ll ask about him. “How’s your brother? I’ve been praying for him…” I’ll smile and nod and say that I got a MySpace message from him not too long ago and he’s doing well, looks great (if a bit sandy). I’ll say that his ship left Kuwait last month and that he’ll be home (God willing) in mid-August. Then (as an afterthought) they’ll add “…and how are things in DC? Wonderful, I’m sure. You’re always wonderful.” They smile, answer themselves, and move on. Yup, wonderful. Hunky Dory. (Churches thrive on clichés)
Truth is that things are not wonderful. They’re not even great. I’ve mentioned before that I feel a little lost these days. A little unsure. I feel like the shutdown scene in A Space Odyssey when HAL goes “I can feel it…I’m losing my mind…I’m a…fraid.” It’s not that I’m always sad, because I’m not. I’m still (mostly) the same me—the laugh, the sarcasm, the optimism—it’s all still there, but there’s something different at the core. Something is missing. Something aches.
I took the train on Friday morning. I rode up with a friend who was also headed home for the weekend. He slept most of the way while I looked at the scenery and listened to Simon & Garfunkel’s America over and over again. It’s my favorite travel song. Even though he was asleep, I was glad he was there…I didn’t want to have to sit next to a stranger. The comfortable silence of a friend is a thousand times better than the chatter of a stranger. The storm in my head started to fade a little as I watched the trees and towns roll by. It was a tangible escape. I felt a little lighter when I got out in New Jersey. I think it was the first time I was actually happy to be in Newark…
Moe picked me up from the train station in her new car. She was a few minutes late so I sat on a plant holder and lit a cigarette while I waited. A man who was missing several teeth came up to me and asked to bum one. I lit it for him. He gave me a toothless smile and asked me if I was a stewardess. “I don’t think they’re called that anymore,” I thought as I shook my head. “My wife was a stewardess,” he continued. “She was pretty like you. Beautiful eyes. Gone 13 years now…” He walked away before I could respond. I don’t know what I would have said if he’d stayed.
Last night around 11 I went outside for a cigarette. My dad was on the air. My mom was on her computer. I stepped out onto the back porch and leaned against the rail. It was pitch black, save for a few fireflies. I realized I’d forgotten what silence sounds like. Living on Connecticut Avenue, I’ve grown accustomed to the cars rolling by, people shouting on the streets, the loud rattle of the window unit. This was different. This was quiet like I hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was good to only hear myself for a while.
I’ve been contemplating leaving Washington. It’s the first time that I’ve really thought about it seriously. In the past it was always an “I’ll eventually end up in NY” kind of thing. But I’m starting to wonder if I’m done with DC. Most of my friends have left. I’m not exactly in love with my job. And there is just something about NY that I miss. Walking along the water in the City on Saturday afternoon I realized that I’d forgotten how amazing it all is—so much bigger than this city will ever be. The buildings are taller. The streets are wider. It’s just so incredible. It made me wonder why I lived here and not there. I was hit with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction. To be fair, however, when my train rolled back into Washington today, the sight of the Monument reminded me that I love this city too.
In the car this morning, my dad, who knows how I've been feeling, said to me, "If there are things that aren't working you just need to try something else." I know I’m not really ready to make any drastic decisions just yet, but the wheels are definitely starting to turn…I have to make some changes. I just haven't decided which yet...
26 comments and more than 400 hits since I posted my "Should I find Anais a new home" entry (see below).
The post was featured on dcblogs.com today and someone posted a link to it on Craigslist under the heading "Sad." I'm completely amazed that this entry got so much attention. As I told a friend earlier today, "This better not be my 15 minutes because that would just be so lame..." I don't even think that it was one of my better written posts, but I guess that once animals are involved people get very passionate--I think I'm going to just start dropping random animal references to keep you guys fighting amongst yourselves. (Three-toed sloths--discuss!)
I would like to say a quick thank you to all of you who commented and either expressed your honest opinions (anonymous #1, BFF Matt), made me laugh (Roz, Diligent), or defended me against ad hominem attacks from GW-hating readers* (Ryan, Fiorella). I hope that, regardless of your views on cats, you'll all come back and keep commenting. I'm always happy to get new readers.
And now, because you've all been subjected to all this cat talk for the past four days. Here's a quick dog anecdote from this past weekend in NJ:
The doorbell rings and my mother opens the door. A tiny old woman is standing on our front porch holding a clipboard.
My mom: Yes?
Old Lady: Good afternoon, do you own a dog?
My mom (without missing a beat): No...but I have a husband...
Stay tuned for more Jersey stories...I've got a zillion things to share.
*10 bucks says he/she applied to GW, didn't get in, and now boasts a degree from AU--How's that for GW-bratty for ya? huh?
Thursday, July 06, 2006
I've had Anais for exactly one year this month. I got her last summer in a bit of a whim (caprice is one of my specialties). I was bored and a bit lonely and spent way too much time lurking around Craigslist. I think I saw a movie or something with a cute black cat in it and thought "Oh, I want one!" So get one I did.
I answered an ad from a girl who had a black kitten to give away and a couple weeks later she was mine. I fretted over what to name her for several days. Originally, I wanted a male kitty (cause I like boys so much better) and wanted to name him Giovedi (Thursday in Italian), Gio for short... But since the kitten I got was female I went with Anais, after Anais Nin, one of my favorite writers (she's mostly known for her erotica and diaries...very sexy).
She's a sweet girl (sometimes) and spends most of her time sleeping on a pile of laundry in my closet or hiding in my bathtub. When I have company over she usually disappears, unless said company is male. Like me, she loves boys. But while I tend to rely on my wit and strategically low-cut tops, she opts for a much less subtle brand of seduction involving sluttish writhing and lapdances.
She sounds charming, yes...but I'm tired of her. I'm tired of having to wash everything in my apartment a thousand times because she rolls all over everything with cat hair; I'm tired of the constant sneezing because as it turns out, I'm a little bit allergic; I don't like that my arms are covered in scratches and that my 550 thread count sheets are all totally destroyed from her constant clawing (like me, she enjoys luxury); I don't want to have to worry about who will feed her (although Sara has been wonderful about that) when I take a weekend trip home to NJ or a longer trip to PR. Is it selfish of me? Yes. But I'm 23 and still trying to figure out what I want from life. This is the time for me to be a little selfish... Part of me feels like I'm giving up, but part of me feels like I'm making the right choice.
I guess in my head I've already decided, even though my heart hasn't caught up yet and the thought makes me a little sad...a little wistful. I'm going to miss her warm little body curled up between my legs at night while I sleep or watch tv. I'm going to miss the cute way that she jumps in and out of the grocery bags when I get home from Whole Foods. Or how she howls and jumps excitedly when I take the prosciutto out of the fridge (I told you...she enjoys luxury). She's a sweet, beautiful cat (just look at those eyes!), but I just don't think I'm the best owner for her.
So now I have to find the person who is...
I spent most of that summer hobbling (and boozing)around DC with a bloated, bruised cankle* (I'm pretty sure this was the start of my cab obsession) while my roommate woke up freakishly early to go on increasingly long runs. There were several mornings when I, just getting up, would watch her walk in after a 17 mile run all red, sweaty, and missing several toe nails, and think to myself "Thank God for those crooked steps..."
But that doesn't mean that I don't admire those of you who train and complete the aforementioned marathon. It's brutal and the disgusting DC summer weather makes the training even more difficult. So that's why I feel for this sassy runner/blogger who has been having a bitch of a time raising money and is on the verge of getting booted from the program. Swing on over to her blog and give her some love (and hopefully a few greenbacks...yeah...I said it).
* as in calf + ankle (not a typo)
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
I have no idea what it is about this Sony Handycam commercial that has me so hooked, but (as I've said before) it's not just me. I mentioned a couple weeks ago that I have desperately been trying to track down information about this.
For those of you who haven't seen it yet, the ad is for the Sony Handycam and the new Bluetooth microphone feature. The ad features a little girl (see above left) who played the role of the "aardvark" in a school play. The girl comes home with her parents and slumps down on the couch (see below right--terrible posture). "Nobody noticed me!" She whines to her parents, who waste no time exchanging a worried but knowing glance. With the help of Sony's new Bluetooth microphone (see the conspicuous silver box attached to the aardvark costume above) her parents show her that she was really the "star of the show."
Now, I could probably go on quite a lengthy tangent about whether or not it's really good for parents to give in to their child's selfish need to be the center of attention. But I prefer to focus on the irony of the statement "Nobody noticed me." Because, whiny aardvark girl, we did notice you. There are hundreds of Americans who not only noticed you, but want to know more about you. Want to find you and hear you sing. Want to share this song with their babies and loved ones. So yes, little aardvark girl, somebody noticed you--and it had nothing to do with your giant Sony Bluetooth microphone. My post about your song, "I know that you're with me...through the storm," has gotten dozens and dozens of hits from strangers all over the country who are trying to find out more about it. More about you. I continue to receive comments and e-mails every single day from people who just want to let me know that they also can't get it out of their heads--from a mother who wants to sing it to her baby to a woman whose husband has been going nuts for days because of the song.
So, while I still haven't found out anything new, I want you to know that I'm looking and will report as soon as I know. I've actually sent the Sony US marketing department a few e-mails and will let you know if I hear anything back. I also managed to track down a few images from the commercial, which I've posted here for your viewing pleasure. Hopefully these will keep you going until we can learn a little bit more.
Again, I ask that if you know anything about the commercial or the song, please let us know. Also, I really appreciate all the comments from people who came here looking for info about the song or the ad. If this is your first time here, please take a second to leave a comment...just so that we know we're not alone in this weird little quest.
UPDATE: Case closed.
CareFirst Operator: What is your name?
CF: Ok, Honey, and what is your last name?
Me: No, not "Honey," it's Alejandra.
CF: Not Honey?
Me:Uh...no. Who's named "Honey"? It's A-le-jan-dra.