sunnyglobaldiva
Remember the era of the great jingle? The catchy little advertising tune you couldn’t resist singing along with when it came on the TV screen or the radio? They were an advertising mainstay between the ’50s and the ’90s. Not that they’re officially dead and gone, but by comparison to those extremely memorable chords and words of yesterday, today’s jingles seem non-existent and forgettable. Below are eleven clips of old commercials with some of my favorite jingles. I focused on the 80s, with the exception of Coca-Cola’s famous early ’90s jingle. Considered adding the Soul-Glo commercial from Coming to America, but figured that would be cheating…
Some Memorable Jingles of Yesteryear
Juicy Fruit. I can sing this song in its entirety. With an…appropriate…level of over-enthusiasm. Don’t judge me.
Big Red. Gum was clearly an obsession in North America for a while…
Zest Soap. I always wanted that giant towel. As for the very scientifically sound soap-scum-on-the-shower-door experiment in every Zest commercial, can’t say I ever conducted such trials in my own home…
Extra. See ‘Big Red’ description above.
Coast. Bar soap commercials had a way of working themselves into the mind. I often found myself smelling the bar and getting a stupid smile on my face, like all the showering folks in the Coast commercials. Again, don’t judge me…
The Clapper. An a capella jingle, but a note-worthy jingle nonetheless. Who didn’t know this one? I always lamented that I never had a clapper in my home, and today I often wish I had one when I feel too lazy to switch off a lamp.
Folgers. Those commercials made me want it, but Folgers wasn’t allowed in my house. My father was a strict Café Bustelo man who only prepared the family’s coffee in “the third-world coffee maker”– the nickname my sisters and I gave to our stovetop espresso maker– “third world coffee maker” being a misnomer, of course, because this type of coffee maker was invented in Italy…Still haven’t experienced “the best part of waking up,” but I remember the song.
GEO. G. E. O-whoa-whoa-whoa. My sisters and I used to sing that line. Over and over.
Frosted Flakes. “Show ‘em you’re a tiger, show ‘em what you can do…” Frosted Flakes commercials had a common theme– most of them featured an underdog needing to unleash the tiger within. The jingle is short, but effective.
My Buddy/Kid Sister. A catchy little tune. The jingle was undoubtedly the bane of many a parent’s existence, and the toy itself merely one more link in the long unbroken chain of children’s imaginary friends.
Coca-Cola. I don’t drink soda, but I’ve never forgotten this song. Obviously, Coke knew it had a winner with this tune and wanted its message engrained in people’s minds–it’s not often a product displays its jingle’s lyrics, karaoke-style, in its commercials. In my humble opinion, they’ve never had a stronger ad campaign.
Ohh, alright. I couldn’t resist. Here’s a little “Soul-Glo,” courtesy of Coming to America…
Did I miss any of your favorites? Please share!
I never wear hats. I always want to, but I don’t. I admire men and women who wear nice ones–ahh, such panache. Whenever I put one on, I feel loud…then self-conscious. One of my best friends is getting married this year, and for her bridal shower, she asked her guests to don hats for a lovely Sunday lunch. While I did have a subtly nagging sense of dread that I wouldn’t look quite right, those thoughts were crowded out by the pleasant idea of seeing my best friends in hats.
My friend, behatted
Perhaps in order to pay homage to the high pressure all-nighters of my school days, I procrastinated with my headpiece assignment. After hitting a few stores unsuccessfully, and feeling slightly panicked with less than 48 hours left until the shower, I texted my besties for advice on stores, materials, and styles. All responded immediately (because they are the greatest friends in the world) with ideas and reassurances. 24 hours before the party, I headed to Burlington Coat Factory where I found a slew of hats. Some reminded me too much of a church service. Some were too warm for outdoor Florida weather. Some looked nice hanging on the hat rack, but absolutely ridiculous on my head. I took a few different hats to a fitting room along with some dresses. After frantically changing in and out of ten different outfits and hearing pieces of bizarre conversations from fitting rooms next door, I went back to the hat rack, eyes fully peeled. My eye settled on a fun green one with a flower; I swear it hadn’t been there before. I grabbed it and ran back to the clothing racks and found a springtime-is-here halter dress covered in a violet, blue, and green flowery pattern. I walked to the fitting room, confident that this combination would be the answer to my silent prayer.
Testing my outfit out before a mirror
Come Sunday, I arrived at the shower, turned off the car and sat there staring at the hat on the passenger seat, all at once in love with it, yet loathe to put it on. A few moments later, I walked onto a patio filled with behatted ladies, each one all the more lovely and unique thanks to those expressive accessories adorning their heads. There were all kinds–there were straw hats and fascinators, there were ones made of linen and of raffia, some had feathers galore. Each woman’s hat was a compliment to her personality and style. While all of us experienced certain obstacles when searching for and choosing our hats, we all agreed that we’d like to wear them more often. My friend’s shower was wonderful, and I won’t forget that I wore my first real hat for her.
A glowing bride-to-be, her aunt, and my lovely friend
Myself and the hostesses with the mostesses
More ladies, more hats
The bridal party
Thank you, dear Olivia, for sending me pictures #6, 7, and 11!
Moments of shyness. Even those of us who get along easily with all sorts can find themselves suddenly gripped with bouts of timidity. I had one recently. My husband and I were visiting the hotel where we got married and upon arriving, saw the familiar smiling face of the hotel door greeter, Richard. Richard is an affectionate darling of a gentleman who has been greeting guests at Disney World’s flagship resort, the Grand Floridian, for decades. When we pulled into the valet area, I squealed with delight upon sight of him. My husband urged me to go talk to him while the valet unpacked our bags. Overcome with a spell of shyness, I declined, explaining that I didn’t want to bother him because he looked busy.
Richard holds a special place in my heart. I’ve always seen him standing at the hotel entrance, making people–myself included–smile whenever they walk through the doors. Besides being polite (a given for someone in his type of position), he has an honest smile, the kind that reaches the corners of the eyes. His sweetness and his pleasant sense of humor are unforgettable. On my wedding day a few years ago, once dressed, I sat in my hotel room with my mother and sister, and we heard a knock at the door. My mom answered, and I heard some happy commotion. She turned to me smiling and said, “Le bonhomme est la!” (The nice chap is here!) Richard was standing at my door, smiling and waiting; he had come to escort me from my room and help carry my train. The wedding planner hadn’t mentioned that he would be there, so I was genuinely surprised. He helped me in the hotel lobby with my dress for the pre-ceremony photographs, and then helped me into the car that would take my father and me over to the chapel. He conversed with me the entire time. I loved that he was there, and appreciated what he added to my day.
Richard helping me climb into the car
Richard holding my flowers while my dad and I smile for a quick shot.
On the last day of our recent vacation when we checked out, we waited for the valet to bring the car around. My husband reminded me, “He’s over there, go talk to him while we wait.” I noted that Richard was speaking to another hotel employee; I didn’t want to disturb them, but with a mixture of reluctance and nervous hope, decided to approach him anyway. He stopped his conversation, turned to me and smiled. I told him, “I got married here a few years ago, and you escorted me from my room to the lobby and I never forgot it, and just wanted to tell you that it was very special to me and made me so happy.” He immediately pulled me in for a tight hug, chatted with me for a while, happily obliged me by taking a couple of pictures, and basically had me smiling for the four-hour drive home.
I’ve often found myself ready to slip into shyness. I now have no doubts whatsoever that shyness is a useless quality that consistently manages to keep people from doing things that are good for them, and keeps them from interacting with others in a potentially meaningful way. The voices in your mind that babble nonsense like ‘he’s too busy,’ ‘he doesn’t care what you have to say,’ and ‘what would you say to him anyway’–they are naysayers, masking themselves less threateningly as that which we call “shyness.” They should be categorically carted off to a rocky island where they can ponder and atone for their ruinous behavior. It’s always worthwhile to tell someone that he or she is doing a good job. It’s always worthwhile to tell someone that he or she has made you happy in some way. Never let the naysayers tell you otherwise.
Richard, the Grand Floridian's hotel greeter, and I on my last day of vacation
**Wedding photography by Christopher Patrick Photography
Acid wash jeans: an idea whose time has passed. Like, really. We may have donned a pair and admired their faux-distressed look, but they point to a distinctly bizarre era of fashion. For a process that made so many articles of clothing look so ridiculous, the acid wash was pretty well thought out, involving chlorine and pumice stones (only die-hard slaves of fashion need apply!). The pumice stones were soaked in chlorine, then the denim clothing (jeans, jean jacket, vest, etc) could be doused with some spritzes of the chemical, then scrubbed with the bleachy stone, or put into a machine to wash with the bleachy stones to achieve that crazed, porous pattern. This process stripped the top layer of denim of its blue color, making it white and allowing the colored threads underneath to show through for that…”look.” Acid wash on blue denim was bad enough, but the process was done to jeans of all colors. And it was best if you had a matching jacket.
The full acid wash shebang
The acid wash didn’t really die in the early ’90s. It’s still here and what’s changed, of course, are the articles of clothing. It is often more subtle today, as the chemicals have shorter contact with the clothing, allowing for a more nuanced pattern. But you can still find bold patterns achieved by deliberate manipulation of the lightening chemicals, which can look nice on a modern cut of pant, such as these skinny jeans here by denim company YMI:
Acid wash skinny jeans from YMI
But don’t you even think of putting on a pair if they’re anything like this pair I’m sporting here–baggy, high-waisted, sewn-in cloth belt, seams all over. It may be of interest to the reader that I’m sporting a New Kids on the Block t-shirt (de rigueur at the time) along with that self-satisfied expression on my face. What did I know, anyway? So tell me…did you wear them proudly in the 80s and 90s? I won’t judge you 
My jeans of yesteryear.
Some chocolate bars are flawless in their composition. My case in point: the regular Twix bar. That nice sweet-ish neutral cookie center, coated with just the right amount of caramel, then wrapped in a thin layer milk chocolate. Many bars overdo it on the chocolate to caramel to cookie ratio, but not Twix. That’s why it’s my favorite chocolate bar. That’s also why it’s so unfortunate for me that in the ’90s, Mars, Inc. decided to start manufacturing these magic bars in facilities that also processed peanut products–not ideal for those of us who suffer from fatal peanut allergies. Oh, the disappointment. There I was, a high school student on my break, holding my Twix bar, just wrestled out of a vending machine hellbent on giving me nothing for my money. I took a bite. Seconds later, the painful tingling in the throat. ‘What the hell?? This is regular Twix.‘ I thought. I took meds to stop the reaction and looked at the packaging, puzzled. Boldfaced writing near the ingredients caught my eye: “May Contain Peanuts.” Well that wasn’t there before…
This was the very beginning of the tell-all label era. While I was red-hot pissed that Mars, Inc. couldn’t keep peanuts out of their peanut-less candy bars, I did appreciate the clear labeling that was popping up on more food products. Of course, the labels have become ridiculous over the years. Out of all the chocolate candies sold in the United States, maybe one or two don’t have the statements “May Contain Peanuts” or “Manufactured in a Facility that Processes Peanuts.” Trust me, I’ve looked. I’m convinced that every single chocolate/candy company that makes their stuff in the US puts these statements on their labels to cover their asses whether their products are processed with peanut or not. Eyeroll.
Hershey, which makes the US’s Kit Kat bars (Nestle makes Kit Kat for the rest of the world), also started pulling the same crap on peanut allergy sufferers by putting the same statements on its Kit Kat labels (these damning statements have yet to appear on Hershey Hugs; thank God for small favors).
So I gave up my beloved Twix along with my well-liked Kit Kats during the mid-90s. I did, however, discover a window of opportunity that I would exploit for years to come: Twix and Kit Kat manufactured outside the US were peanut-free! I’d pick up one of these bars during my trips and vacations out of the country and savor it, comfortable in the knowledge that no allergic reaction would follow. Where were they made, exactly? I couldn’t say. All I knew was that the ingredients were written in English, French, Italian, Polish, Russian, Serbian and Arabic, and the word ‘peanut’ was never anywhere to be found (if you’re wondering how I know, I’ve memorized the word for the offending legume in many languages). Every time a relative comes back from a trip to Europe, they know to bring me a few Twix bars, but I worry that eventually even the Old World will catch onto using peanut as filler.
In Canada, where plenty of peanut-free chocolate candies are available to the public, I can find peanut-free Kit Kat. But in the US, still not available. The last time I was in Orlando, I found myself wandering a little fake patch of British soil (read: UK Pavilion at EPCOT, Disney World). I walked into a shop selling UK goods, and on my way out my eye caught a flash of red: a stack of Kit Kats at the register. I turned to my husband and wondered aloud, “Ya think they import those Kit Kats?” I picked one up and read the label. Sunny Global Diva 1, Peanut 0. Of course, this Kit Kat bar that normally costs around 80 cents in the US cost $3 in “England.” Then again, these 3-dollar Kit Kats won’t send me to the hospital. I grabbed a pair and happily overpaid for my peanut-free candy. It’s true what they say about Disney World–happiest place on Earth.
My Kit Kat, blessedly free of peanut.
We only turn one once. The parental units, siblings if applicable, extended family, and friends make a big to-do about the 365th day of your life. It’s too bad we can’t remember our first birthdays. But I’m blessed to celebrate a new first birthday–today, February 18, 2011 marks one year since I put out my first post. Over the last year, I’ve watched my baby creep out into the world. She’s taken up lots of my time, she’s kept me creative and busy, and she’s forced me to rethink certain parts of my life. Some days, I don’t know what to do with her, but she’s brought me joy and a unique sort of personal growth, and I’m all the better for it.
I get to share my thoughts and life’s interesting times, along with a bunch of random crap (and by ‘random crap’ I mean ‘wonderful stuff’). The icing on the cake is that a bunch of people I love as well as people I’ve never met, will celebrate these things with me. The bright bubblegum pink sprinkle on the icing on the cake is that every so often, someone will understand my randomness and connect with it.
So I thank you, dear readers both sporadic and regular, for stopping here during your busy days to read to my stories, and for your support and interaction. I do hope that you’ll keep following as I figure it all out, and I welcome all communication, feedback and suggestions. I appreciate all the ways you’ve warmed my heart during this first year of blogging as Sunny Global Diva.
The morning of Sunny Global Diva's 1st Birthday--spent in a suburban office parking lot. Bring glamor and love everywhere, I say...
I spent this past Monday playing with quail in the kitchen. The experience yielded some interesting things. First of all, they’re so damn tiny and delicate. Your thumb and forefinger move ever so slightly while the bird is in your clutches, and you feel SNAP, CRACKLE, POP while its little bones break and bend. I eat quail often, but had never prepared it myself. I chose a recipe from Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc book; it involved marinating the bird in a pomegranate-juice-based marinade, then cooking it either on the grill or by pan. I chose the pan-roasting cooking method.
The recipe was good, but a tad flawed because it left out some helpful pieces of information. First of all, the recipe didn’t call for a defined amount of salt, nor did it even call for “salt to taste.” It’s bad when recipes fail to mention salt–I ended up seasoning them just before they went into the pan, but a recipe should state when to season because it does matter, and it’s a helpful reminder to home cooks (how many contestants on Top Chef get reprimanded for under-seasoning? And those are professional chefs with extensive training–I cook at home). Removed from marinade, bits wiped off, briefly dipped in oil, then into a pan warmed to medium they went, breast-side down. But because these birds are so small and have tiny fronts that puff up, they don’t lay down easily on the breast-side; they want to flop over. As I found out after through research, that’s why it’s good to butterfly them for pan cooking–it helps them sit and cook evenly and quickly. The recipe would have been better with that step. So the birds were too-darkly browned on the outside on certain parts, and still slightly raw on the inside as opposed to the medium rare that I wanted. I had to finish them in the oven to fix the raw, and was then satisfied with the taste. Despite the missteps, the birds were good–we loved the flavor that the marinade gave them, which were flavors of pomegranate, serrano pepper, shallot, onion and sage. Next time, I’ll butterfly the birds; that should help a lot.
In the meantime, I continue to hone my risotto skills. Fortunately my bird’s accompaniment–flavored this time with a light saffron broth–went off without a hitch and was quite good, and creamier than the last batch. I find that I thoroughly enjoy making risotto. The transformation of the grains in the pot is mesmerizing…
Risotto: early toasting stage
Early liquid additions
Yellowed with saffron and stock
Final stir!
Weaving its way through the evening–before, during, and after the meal–was a Caymus Special Selection Cabernet. It was with a happy and heavy heart that this cheap date swallowed the last drop of her Nth glass.
The birds, rice and Cab were followed by 10-year-old tawny port, and sweets picked out by my other half from Hollywood’s Chocolada Bakery & Cafe. All in all a fun way to spend the 14th of February.
Sweets
Bottle, cradled and admired the next day. Empty, sadly...
A rose can be red
A tulip, bright blue;
All kinds of flowers can say “I love you” ~ Me.
Despite being the daughter of a former florist, I have a thing about red roses for Valentine’s Day. I’m kind of not into them. The sea of red rose in stores is stifling, I don’t care for the jacking up of red and pink rose prices for the holiday, nor do I enjoy seeing the desperation on men’s faces when they shop for the things at the last minute. I have told my husband on most of our Valentine’s Days to get me flowers other than red roses, or to get me some type of interesting plant; he’s smart and creative–I’d rather see his personality shine through his choice than see him give me something pre-chosen that’s being pushed onto the public. I know people say that yellow flowers symbolize friendship and white ones mean purity, and that this flower means this and that flower means that. But ultimately, doesn’t something have whatever meaning you choose to assign it? With so many choices out there, why do so many people confine themselves to one type of flower and two colors? I love flowers (even red roses have a spot in my heart–before and after Valentine’s Day), and think they’re always a beautiful gesture from the heart, but we can show just as much love to some other pretty petals. And should your significant other show creativity in choosing flowers, and surprise you with stems other than red or pink roses: 1.) appreciate the gesture 2.) don’t obsess about the meaning of alternative florals, and 3.) don’t let your friends, relatives or co-workers belittle the gift and convince you that there’s something wrong with it–aesthetics and personal taste probably had more to do with the choice of flowers than hidden messages.
Here are five flowers that I love to see on Valentine’s Day (and on any other day, for that matter). I’ve included some of the traditional beliefs as to what they symbolize.
(1.) Ranunculus; some varieties of this flower are known as “buttercup.” Such a sweet flower. Symbolizes charm. As in the giver of the flower finds you charming.
Ranunculus
(2.) Gerbera daisies; their brightness always makes me smile. They can mean innocence, but also mean cheer. I already know the love and affection is there–adding cheer to the mix is swell.
Gerbera Daisies
(3.) Roses…in other colors; an orange rose conveys desire. My husband often chooses orange for flowers because that’s his color, and that’s fine by me. Lavender roses tell the recipient that the giver has “fallen in love” or “is enchanted” by her/him. Yellow says “friendship,” which in my mind has never been a bad thing between significant others. I love all of these roses.
Yellow-orange Roses
(4.) Tulips; traditional but always dazzling, tulips shout “Get happy.” Yellow ones symbolize “joy,” while red ones represent “perfect love.” White tulips allude to forgiveness, blue ones mean loyalty and unity, and purple says “royalty.” In hoping for a joyful perfect union, wherein lovers forgive each other their wrongs, are loyal to one another, and treat each other like royalty, maybe a multicolored bouquet of these would be best?
Tulips; my mother-in-law's lawn
Tulips
(5.) Sunflowers; I feel like these flowers are smiling at me. They’re also a symbol of adoration, loyalty and longevity. All great qualities in a relationship.
Sunflowers
I challenge the die-hard Rose Party members of the world to change their red-and-pink-rose-colored views of V-Day, but I know roses remain a must for many. Does your significant other get into trouble if the traditional long-stemmers are a no-show? Do your Valentine’s Day flowers have to be red or pink roses?
***Photo credits***
Ranunculus at the Farmers’ Market by Kthread
Gerberas by Marco Raaphorst
Yellow Orange Roses by Kaz Andrew
Sunflowers “Sunshine Daydream” Arrangement by FTD.com
I recently posted my first foray into risotto-cooking here on my blog. Encouraged by both my husband and some friends, I’ve decided to post more of my cooking on a regular basis. So without further ado, I give you my leftover lunch: risotto cakes!
In researching different recipes and approaches to making risotto, I came across some delectable ways to use leftover risotto. When the rest of your freshly cooked creamy risotto sits in the fridge for a night or two, it turns into a slightly firmer concoction: still pliable, but harder than a fresh risotto–a perfect consistency for re-shaping with your hands. I shaped the leftovers into two flat round cakes, less than an inch-thick, sprinkling a tiny bit of freshly grated parmesan to the mix to freshen it up. I lightly dredged each side in flour. In a nonstick pan warmed over medium heat, I added a pat of parmigiano reggiano butter and olive oil to coat the bottom of the pan. Fried them up for about 8 minutes on each side, and ended up with crispy browned mushroomy cheesy goodness. Was oh so good. Is oh so highly recommended!
Crispy, cheesy, mushroomy risotto cake
I. MISS. THESE. I want the real Jello pudding pops. The ones that Bill Cosby used to plug on TV during the 1980s. The ones that came in a box as chocolate, vanilla, and chocolate-vanilla swirl-flavored. Swirl was my favorite: best of both worlds, mixing of two great elements–the idealist in me, I suppose. The real kicker is that I HATE pudding. Weird, I know. So please, don’t console me with any “You can make them at home!” suggestions about making pudding and freezing it–I know you’re trying to help, but it’ll only make me sadder because it won’t have that same non-replicable flavor that only mass-manufacturing by a food conglomerate like Kraft Foods can achieve. I admit that I mostly avoid processed food. That said, Jello pudding pops, you’re sorely missed, and would be a welcome guest in my house any day.
High time for a revival, methinks.
Photo by knellotron
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