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.