A Pitch: Sports Drink TV Ad

Close up on the face of a struggling athlete, maybe a bicyclist. Suggestions that it's a big race (shoving cyclists to his/her right and left, crowd noises). Then maybe a hint that it's Paris and he/she is riding down the Champs Elysses at the end of the Tour de France--a helicopter shot glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe or something. Our cyclist comes in second place at about five seconds into the commercial. Voiceover (I'm imagining a Stranger Than Fiction-style narration) says the athlete's name, and then, "Second place. Tour de France, [year]." Then cut to some World Cup Final (the 2010 event is next Sunday, but in the interest of full disclosure, I had to Google it to be sure...), narrowing in on the face of the losing team's goalie when the winning shot is scored. Voiceover: "[Team Country.] Second place. 2010 FIFA World Cup." Similar scenes from maybe one or two more big athletic events.

Then, voiceover, as we see one of these "losing" athletes take a sip of [Sports Drink]: "We can't guarantee that [Our Sports Drink] will make you a world champion. [beat, athlete sets drink down, close-up of sweating, dripping drink against black background, maybe next to a silver trophy from one of the events] But it can get you pretty close. [Our Sports Drink.] [Our Slogan.]"

L'Uovo Sbattuto

When I was in Italy, the kids frequently ate this dish called "l'uovo sbattuto," which literally means "beaten egg." Basically, you take an egg yolk, add a bunch of sugar, and beat it until it becomes super-duper fluffy. The Armani-Dallabetta family had a little hand-cranked egg beater particularly for this purpose: the beaters were in the red top of this little plastic jar… you'd turn the handle vigorously for about ten minutes, until the consistency changed from grainy to creamy. Eccolo: l'uovo sbattuto. The kids would just eat it with a spoon--evidently, some Italian kids put it on toast, but the family I lived with didn't.

It's weird, though, culturally, because I can't imagine my parents ever condoning this--let alone considering it "healthy" for kids. I mean, it's a raw egg yolk (with all the fat, cholesterol, and only a little bit of the protein...not to mention our cultural phobia of salmonella poisoning) and a shit ton of sugar (seriously! so much sugar!). But the kids loved it.

And honestly I didn't see very many fat people in Italy at all; how is weight determined, culturally? You'd think that a country full of people that grew up eating this stuff would be enormous.

What's up with you, lately?

I think I am going to start a blog again because, well, first of all, I am quite possibly a bit of an attention whore (but who isn't, really?). Second, and perhaps more importantly, I think I don't write as much as someone who has devoted her life to The Written Word ought to. Third, it has been impressed upon me lately that memory is an incredibly tenuous thing, and I'd like someday to have a record of what I'm thinking and feeling these days--and having a potential audience makes it more likely that I will continue to write.

Finally, it's summer, I don't yet have a job, and thus I actually have a little bit of free time.

I've been thinking lately about how my life and relationships with people seem to pass in distinct stages, broken up by work and school and places of living. In some ways, those things are artificial--I'm the same Elizabeth in San Luis Obispo as I was in Los Angeles, right?--but in truth I've come to believe they are more a part of me than I like to think sometimes. After all, what are you at any point but your answer to the question, "What's up with you, lately?"

The last few weeks, that question has been met with a bit of guilt on my part. "Well," I hedge, usually unsuccessfully, "I just finished teaching for a year"--here I push my glasses up my nose, or run my left hand through my hair, or shrug self-effacingly--"and I've got just one more quarter of classes to take before I've got my Master's." Then I nod and look away. I'm always nodding. I'm so awkward.

People generally respond, "Oh, that's great!" and I feel a bit deceitful. Is it really? More frequently, I'm plagued by the sense that my educational decisions have been financially imprudent. What am I going to do with all these loans and an MA in English? What am I qualified to do but teach or go on for a PhD? And once I have that PhD--five, six, seven years down the road, saddled with loans and such--then what?

I imagine myself, sometimes, thirty years old and finally superglued to the halls of academia, my heel-shod feet kicking, kicking, kicking. Maybe I'll have a family--a couple of kids who will be able by then to drag me down into the real world for a bit (changing diapers, tickling baby bellies, writing checks to a Montessori preschool)--but it could as possibly just be me, alone, in an increasingly insular existence ameliorated only by staff meetings and teaching.

I don't want that to happen.