Approximately 50 years ago, my father offered my mother a bribe.

She was in the final days of her pregnancy with me as 1967 drew to a close. And my father recognized that if I were born before the end of December, he'd get a tax credit for the year. So he told my mother that if she had her baby in 1967, he'd give her 100 bucks. A kickback, of sorts.

As the story goes, my mother immediately went into labor.

And so we have the above photo, which I adore. Because my mother looks so radiant and beautiful. Because I think I spy a lighter and ashtray on the bedside table. And because of that 100-dollar bill, which I think tells a terrific story.

Recently I wrote about how, as a kid, I believed that Sea-Monkeys were genuine hominids I could purchase and reconstitute with tap water. But that’s certainly not the limit of the ignorance and confusion I've demonstrated through the years.

As it turns out, advertisers can be deceptive.

Let's look at Exhibit A, above. In the '70s, this ad appeared in comic books and depicted what I thought I was going to receive when I ordered... a family? a colony? a kingdom? of Sea-Monkeys. I genuinely thought I was going add water and create sentient bipeds. It gave me a moral dilemma, really. Would they be my prisoners? My slaves? Surely "pets" wasn't the right term. How could I withstand the responsibility of caring for them?

Well, I needn't have worried. Because this is what Sea-Monkeys actually look like:

Seriously, advertisers? You make credulous little kids believe they're going to raise mermaids and mermen, and you give them what are essentially microscopic water impurities?

Look at the ad. Beneath the garbage about how you can train these little aqua-bugs, down at the very bottom, you can see the disclaimer "Caricatures shown are not intended to depict Artemia salina" (the miniscule brine shrimp you'll actually receive).

What are they meant to depict, I wonder? 

I had a dangerous mishap yesterday. And it never would have happened if I hadn't moved from Florida to Colorado.

Early in the morning, I began a drive to Denver from our home in Lafayette. It was cold outside, yes, but there was no snow. I noticed a bit of dirt on my windshield, so I gave it a squirt of windshield fluid and turned on the wipers.

Instantly, my entire windshield was covered with an opaque sheet of ice. Combined with the rising sun, I could see absolutely nothing. And the ice wasn't budging. It looked a little something like this:

With my wipers on high speed, I managed to make a little ice-aperture in front of the passenger seat. So I began to drive with my torso stretched to the right at a 45-degree angle. This went on for a few harrowing minutes until my full-blast defroster did its work.

Post-crisis assessment has established the culprit: windshield fluid purchased in Florida, which does not require antifreeze properties. I have now filled my reservoir with Colorado-appropriate fluid, and hopefully I won't have another blinding freezeout. Live (if you're lucky) and learn.

My memory of my childhood is a little on the foggy side. So I thought I'd take a look at an old diary and see what the hell went on when I was a kid.

Here's what I notice about  my nine-year-old diarist self: I was either not very expressive about my emotions, or I was a stone-cold psychopath.

​Shortly after my ninth birthday, we see the demise of my goldfish, in two chapters (and some very confusing date-recording):

Shortly thereafter, it was Freddie Prinze whose demise I recorded. It seems that my spelling, capitalization, and pen choices were all affected, but that may have been it.

Next to kick the bucket: my filthy cur, Ralph. I had stolen him and his brother Floyd as puppies from my neighbor Lisa Perez (I guess I do have some childhood memories—I'll save that one for another blog), and I swear I really did care for him. But my diary entry looks like it was written by a plagiaristic, robotic narcissist. "Kitty" is what Anne Frank called her diary, so I had to rip that off. Then: "Ralph has died of heartworm. I wish he hadn't." And finally, we get to the real news: that the mosaic I made from wallpaper might make it to the state fair, tra-la-la.

As I've mentioned before, Sears is in its death throes. What makes this especially tragic is how fabulous this company used to be. Just take a look at their 112th catalogue, which seems to have been published in 1901. You'll see everything from wallpaper and sewing machines to buggies and pianos. Not to mention food and tobacco and stoves. Whatever you needed, Sears, Roebuck & Company had it.

I downloaded catalogue #112 here, and you can, too. It's a fascinating journey. Here are just a few of the highlights from the "Cheapest Supply House on Earth":

A "jet black curly dog coat" for $20.

I am a member of a meetup of podcast enthusiasts. At our last gathering, I was asked if I'd like to choose my all-time favorite podcast episode for the group to listen to and discuss. It was difficult to choose, but I came up with two favorites. May I highly recommend them both to you, because I predict that they will rock your world.

The first is an episode of Invisibilia called "Entanglement," and specifically a segment called "Mirror Touch." It's about a woman who has a type of synesthesia that causes her to literally feel what other people feel. So, for example, if she were to see someone stub his toe, she would experience a very real pain in her own toe. It has made her life very difficult, and affected her family in profound ways. Listen here.

My other favorite podcast episode is from This American Life, called "If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say, SAY IT IN ALL CAPS." There is a segment wherein author Lindy West is hounded online by a viciously cruel troll. And she ends up having a conversation with him. Listen here.

I'd love to hear what you think of these episodes, or if you have favorite podcasts of your own. Do tell!

Much to my husband's annoyance, I am almost always wearing headphones. If I'm not working at my computer or sleeping, chances are excellent that I'm listening to an audiobook or a podcast. The following scenario has happened approximately 2.3 zillion times:

So sue me: I love listening to things. I've been a member of Audible for close to 20 years and have accumulated 321 titles in my library. Here is a sampling of the podcasts I enjoy listening to. Additionally, I listen to programs like Hold On with Eugene Mirman that are technically Audible channels. Oh, and I also have the Audm app, which enables me to listen to great articles from magazines like The Atlantic and The New Yorker.

Why do I love audio so much? For one thing, if I sit down to read a "real" book or magazine, my mind is likely to a) wander, or b) go to sleep. But beyond that, I love listening to voices—the emotion of them, the timbre, the humanness and intimacy. And when you listen to podcasts, there's the fabulous nuance added by thoughtful production: sound effects, audio engineering, conversations, audience reactions, etc. Good podcasts are magnetic.

Earlier in my long advertising career, I got to write and produce many radio commercials, and that was wonderful. I maintain that radio is the most visual medium, because when it's done well, it makes listeners watch stories right in their heads.

So imagine my delight when 99% Invisible, one of the best podcasts out there (and a must-listen for anyone even remotely interested in design), shared this wonderful tale about Clive Desmond's personal history with radio advertising. The episode is called "A 700 Foot Mountain of Whipped Cream," and that evocative title is a testament to the visual power of audio.

If you are interested in advertising or psychology, if you enjoyed Mad Men, or if you just have a strong recollection of the ads of yesteryear, I highly recommend that you listen to this podcast episode. And try not to let anyone interrupt you.

As it turns out, I've been married for 25 years (in a row, to the same man). Consequently, I've never experimented with OkCupid, Tinder, and the like. So when I recently discovered the app called Shapr, it was a real novelty to me. 

Shapr (a name that evokes a workout plan, in my opinion) lets professionals introduce themselves to other professionals who might make good business partners or clients. (As a copywriter, I'm on the lookout for freelance designers and folks with marketing needs.) The app Bumble has a similar feature called Bumble Bizz, but it also offers modes that cater to dating and friendship.

ANYway. As an utter newbie to this swiping business, I have occasionally swiped right by mistake (the horror!), and it took me a while to realize that reciprocal interest was required for an introduction. But I am learning!

I've had two face-to-face meetups this week, and they've been wonderful. I've really enjoyed the interactions, and I believe I might actually get some good business and possibly friendship out of the deal.

So, though I'm new to the swiping game, I'm happy to be here.