Milking Got Milk is an evolving compilation of photos that document the interminable, albeit amusing, exploitation of the “got milk?” ad campaign. Submissions welcome!

I am a graphic artist, a mom, an aspiring writer and an amateur photographer. I am fascinated with signs, especially those that are messed up for one reason or another. I get a serious thrill out of catching a nonsensical, misspelled and/or random message posted for the world to see. Wherever I am in the world, while most people are looking at the landscape or the architecture or the people, I am looking at the signs – most of which are advertisements.

Before moving to the sleepy beach town where I currently reside, I lived in San Francisco – the birthplace of the “got milk?” ad campaign. When the campaign was launched, in June 1993, I was working a block away from Goodby, Berlin and Silverstein. GBS was the hot ad agency in town. It was the hip “boutique” shop where everyone wanted to work – me included. Each campaign that came out of the place was more innovative, more clever and more fun than the last. “Got milk?” was one of those campaigns.

The “ad gulch,” the 6-8 square blocks off The Embarcadero and home to San Francisco’s top design firms and ad agencies, was very incestuous. We all knew each other, we all hung out, we all had dated each other at one time or another. And when one of us had a baby, i.e. “got milk?,” we all felt that be had been right there in the delivery room the whole time. We all passed out cigars.

And while I initially loved the “got milk” baby as if it were my own, the novelty and charm of the campaign wore off quickly as the public glommed on, made it it’s own and milked it (pun intended) to death. In my mind, within a year, that campaign was over and out – old news.

But not so for others.

Sixteen years later its rip-offs are still everywhere. People continue to milk “got milk” for all it’s got. It seems that when they use this slogan for their purposes, they think they’re being cute, original and clever. I find them to be, well, not so much. Note to people: It’s not clever anymore. In fact, it hasn’t been clever for about fifteen years. But to me, it’s funny. It’s funny that people still think it’s funny.

My Milking Got Milk project officially began on September 20, 2009 when I took a snapshot of a “Got Jesus?” sticker, I saw on a car. A week later, we discussed clichés in my Journalism class and #1 on the professor’s list of “clichés we hate” was “got (your product here)?.” Later that day, while picking my kids up at school, I spotted entry number two, “Got Mariachi?” (a personal favorite), a tee worn by one of my daughter’s classmates. A little light went off in my head… and suddenly, I was on a mission.

From that point on, with my “got” radar on high alert, it seems that “gots” were more everywhere than ever. With my handy iPhone at my side, I’ve shot each got I’ve seen. The majority of the inaugural (31) Milking Got Milk shots were taken right here in my small town (population 93,000) over the course of only three months. I can’t help but wonder what other gots are out there in towns and cities of all sizes across the planet.

And so, I invite you to join my mission by fine tuning your “got” radar, shooting some got shots and sending them in. No monetary compensation is involved but you’ll get credit and a link. It’s all in the name of art. And milk.

Ok then. Let’s get out there and get gots.

Got got?

milkinggotmilk.com

My husband is seven years my senior.  That would make him 55.  For the past several years, when an AARP mailing would arrive for him, I have delighted in grabbing it, waving it high in the air, and announcing – pretty much so the entire neighborhood could hear – “Honey!  There’s some mail for you!”  I get a not-so-secret thrill out of that.

But yesterday, the tables turned.  That’s right.  Yesterday the AARP mailing had MY name on it.  And Doug promptly grabbed it, waived it high in the air and announced “Honey!  There’s some mail for you!”  I knew, immediately, what it was.  I know him and I know that he has been waiting for this day.

Of course, I needed to see it with my own eyes.  I snatched  the envelope out of his hand, and there it was in black and white.  Kimberlee Rossi.  They even spelled my name right, which really pissed me off.  No one spells my name right.  Why the hell would they waste postage, not to mention paper, on sending anything to me?  Where do they get their information?  Don’t they know I’ve got, like, 607.5 days until I’m even eligible?  Why the hell are they pushing the issue?  What did I ever do to them?

Out of curiosity – and after a good 24 hours of sitting with it – I opened the envelope.

The f*ckers sent me a membership card!  AN AMERICAN ASSOCIATION OF RETIRED (read “old”) PERSONS MEMBERSHIP CARD!  They invited me “register… now!” so I could hurry-up and “make the most of life over 50!”  Really thoughtful of them, and everything, but no thanks.  I’m really tied up at the moment, making the most out of life under 50.

Of course I posted this milestone moment on my Facebook page.  Four friends chimed in.  Three were friends over 50 whose comments included: “Downhill from here, mon ami.  I get them monthly these days,” “Card carrying member” and “Mine goes directly into the recycle bin.”  These guys seemed to have already come to terms with the TOTAL assault of getting mail – GETTING A MEMBERSHIP CARD – from AARP.  Me?  F*ck no.

Thankfully, the fourth comment got me off the ledge – for now.  This came from my very fabulous friend, Kate, who is not only 30 (!) but is also is about the hippest, sassiest, most stylish girl you’ll ever meet.  She wrote “I get AARP mailings. And I have, for about 3 years now.  I am 30 years old!!!  They have no idea who is old enough or not!”  I love her.

I’m still processing…

It has taken me all of my adult life to finally pull the trigger on a fake Christmas tree.  This year I did it.

Hell yes I was uncertain about it.  The day after we schlepped the 100+ pound box back from CostCo I called my husband in a panic – “Do we still have the receipt?  Because I’m seriously rethinking this whole fake Christmas tree thing!”  Doug doesn’t save receipts, ever, but of course he still had this receipt.  He knows me too well, and had seen this one coming long before we even stepped foot into CostCo.

I grew up with Mrs. Christmas.  My mom, who owned a flower shop and a party planning business, made a BIG, STINKING deal out of Christmas every year, even though us kids never really knew what we were celebrating other than how cool it was to get presents.  Every year Mrs. Christmas brought home the perfectly proportioned, perfectly tiered, perfectly lit real Nobel Fir even though, for several years, it was so blanketed in flocking it could have been just about anything, real or fake, underneath there.

Each year before the trees came home, my mom’s tree guy performed a little surgery on them to make them picture friggin’ Norman Rockwell perfect.  He’d nip a branch here, drill a hole, and tuck a branch there.  He’d move parts around, and even use parts from other trees to reshape them so they had a more “natural” appearance.  Nothing says Christmas in Beverly Hills like a surgically enhanced “snow” covered tree.

If you count my mom’s trees as real, which technically they were, I’ve only ever had real Christmas trees.  Sure, I’ve considered fake trees in the past, but I could just never go there.  I am kind of a purist that way.  This year, however, it’s different.  Flashing back on recent years, I knew I simply COULD NOT face putting lights on another @!#* Christmas tree. I HATE PUTTING THE F*CKING LIGHTS ON THE TREE.

Fake trees come “pre-lit.”

Having been raised by Mrs. Christmas, my tree light thing is undoubtedly some sort of deep seeded childhood hang-up. Regardless of its origin, I am a ridiculous perfectionist when it comes to putting lights on a Christmas tree.  Each strand needs to be carefully wrapped around each individual branch and every cord and plug needs to be tucked away, indiscernible to the naked eye.  The bulbs need to be pointing out at just the right angle, and in a perfect world, one bulb will land precisely on the tip of each branch. Because I am so neurotic about this, in my house, I do the lights.  And, as a rule, they need to be 100% done and impeccable before a single ornament can go on the tree.

This works for me, but not so much for the people I live with.  My husband could care less.  He loves me despite my neurosis.  But our girls, ages 10 and 6, are not at all patient when it comes to waiting the h-o-u-r-s it takes me to perfect the lights. And I really don’t blame them.  They’re kids.  They’re excited about Christmas. They don’t care about perfect lights.  They don’t care about lights at all.  They just want to rip open the storage boxes, grab the ornaments and get them up on the tree.  It doesn’t even matter where.  They want to do what ever it takes to make Christmas happen sooner.

Trying to explain to them why the lights need to go up before the ornaments, and why it takes me so long to get the lights up, gets me exactly nowhere.  They just don’t understand that it takes time to be painstakingly neurotic. And when the relentless badgering starts, “Mommy, how much l-o-o-o-nger ’til you’re done with the lights?” or “Mommy, can I put up just this one (darling) ornament I (hand)made in preschool (when I was three)” (guilt, guilt, guilt) I feel myself getting all “Joan Crawford” inside.  “DON’T TOUCH THE GODDAMN TREE UNTIL I GET THE GODDAMN LIGHTS FINISHED!”  This is what I think about when I think about putting lights on a Christmas tree.

I could blame this year’s switch to fake on my mom for instilling this wacko Christmas light perfection thing in me.  Or could blame my kids because they bug the shit out of me while I’m trying to get the damn lights on the tree.  Hell, I could even blame it on my astrological sign.  Virgo – the perfectionist.  Or, I could admit it.  Environmental faux-pas or not, forking out $300 for the “9ft. Pre-Lit Artificial Christmas Tree” was about one thing, and one thing only.  ME NOT HAVING TO PUT THE F*CKING LIGHTS ON THE TREE.

It’s taken me this long to go fake and, despite the rash of criticism I’m getting from my friends, I’m an instant convert. The tree was, literally, out of the box, up, and PERFECTLY LIT in 20 minutes. A into B, B into C, C into D.  No muss, no fuss and no ghosts of “Mommy Dearest” past.

We promptly tossed the CostCo receipt into the fire and got on with the business of putting ornaments on our tree. And just like my mom’s tree surgeon intended it, we sat around our perfect tree, all peaceful and cozy, looking like a friggin’ Norman Rockwell painting.

It’s up, it’s fake, and it’s spectacular.

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It’s hard to believe that the “got milk?” ad campaign is SIXTEEN years old.  It’s even harder to believe that the rip-offs are still going strong.

Here’s a tiny bit of history:

“Got Milk? is an American advertising campaign encouraging the consumption of cow’s milk, which was created by the advertising agency Goodby Silverstein & Partners for the California Milk Processor Board in 1993 and later licensed for use by milk processors and dairy farmers. It has been running since October 1993. The campaign has been credited with greatly increasing milk sales nationwide after a 20-year slump.”

- wikipedia

In June 1993, I was working at a design firm in San Francisco – a block away from Goodby, Berlin and Silverstein (their name, then).  GBS was the hot ad agency.  It was the hip boutique shop where everyone wanted to work – me included.  (I interviewed there once.)  Each campaign that came out of the place was more innovative, more clever and more fun than the last.  The “got milk?” campaign was one of those campaigns.  I loved it, at first – but not for long.  Sadly, it’s novelty and charm wore off pretty quickly as the public glommed on, made it their own and milked it (pun intended) to death.

Sixteen years later its rip-offs are still everywhere.  People continue to milk “got milk.”  I’m guessing that when they use this slogan for their purposes, they think they’re being cute, original and clever.  I find them to be, well, not so much.  It’s not clever anymore people.  In fact, it hasn’t been clever for about fifteen years.

Despite the exhaustive use of the slogan, however, it doesn’t seem like the magic little word “got” followed by (your clever idea here) and a “?” is going anywhere soon.  A majority of these photos were taken in my small town over the course of only 3 weeks.  Send me snapshots from your town!  I’m a woman on a mission.

And now my mission, Milking Got Milk, is it’s own dedicated site.  Check it @ milkinggotmilk.com

Got got?

Food, Inc.

(Review for SBCC Journalism class – October 19, 2009)

Campbell Hall was all a buzz Thursday night, when UCSB’s Arts & Lectures Program kicked off it’s ’09-’10 film series with “Food, Inc.” – a documentary by Robert Keener and Eric Schlosser that exposes the startling truths about how our food is made, and processed, and by whom.

The film begins with jovial Tyson chicken farmer, Vince Edwards, who, while driving by his farm, sniffs the air outside and smirks, “Smells like money to me!” The producers go on to reveal that the majority of our country’s food supply is controlled by only a few powerful companies whose goal it is to make food “faster, fatter, bigger, cheaper” for the sole purpose of putting more money in their pockets.  These factory farmers are so focused on revenue that, among countless other despicable practices, they grossly mistreat animals and grossly forsake consumer health.

To maximize profits, these companies stuff their livestock into vast windowless spaces, force feed them unnatural diets, including growth hormones, and leave them to stand up to their thighs in manure.  At one point Edwards says “If you can grow a chicken in 49 days, why would you want one you got to grow in 3 months?”  Again, “faster, fatter, bigger, cheaper.”

Two particularly brutal scenes that generated gasps from the audience were of fluffy yellow chicks on a conveyor belt that drops them several feet into a cardboard box, and of a cow so overfed and crippled it couldn’t stand up and needed to be moved for slaughter by a fork lift. During these and the many other scenes of the filth, cruelty and disease of factory farming, audience members cringed, gasped and cupped hands over their eyes in horror.

Conversely, there were almost as many hopeful and triumphant moments in “Food, Inc.” during which the audience laughed, clapped and cheered. In both extremes, the filmmakers did an outstanding job at making us feel.

Hands down, the highlights of the film were the appearances of Joel Salatin, an organic farmer who raises his livestock in open fields and feeds them grass.  He was just the shot in the arm the audience needed when everything was looking bleak.  Scenes showed the big strapping, big smiling Salatin touring his farm on a bright, beautiful, blue sky day, showing his cattle peacefully grazing in open fields, and him cleaning chickens in an immaculate stainless steel outdoor kitchen.

After all the ugliness that had been exposed in the first part of the film, Salatin was the knight in shining armor that helped “Food, Inc.” end on a high, optimistic note: “Imagine what it would be if, as a national policy [we had]… such nutritionally dense food that people actually felt better, had more energy and weren’t sick as much!  Now that’s a noble goal!”

As much as Food, Inc. exposes the powerful companies that control our current food supply, it also empowers us as consumers to effect change and control our future food supply by buying only local and organic. Gary Hirshberg of Stonyfield Organic Yogurt, another highlight in the film, encourages us to “vote” when we shop: “When we run an item past the supermarket scanner we’re voting for local or not, organic or not.”

A self-proclaimed food snob, I have bought mostly organic for forever.  But if buying strictly organic and local everything will help send a message to the greedy corporate giants and change the course of our nation’s food supply, count me in.  Smells like progress to me.

///

Food, Inc.

Producers: Robert Keener and Eric Schlosser

Running time: 97 minutes

DVD Release: November 3, 2009

Rating: PG

Information: foodincmovie.com

When I first learned about blogs, I didn’t really get them.  Truth is, I still kinda don’t.

I guess it was my first experience ever reading a blog that got me off on the wrong foot.  This blog SUCKED. It was post after post after post of excruciating details of this really mundane person’s really mundane life.  She wrote about big life events like getting a new white couch, for example, on sale!  Kill me now.  And on top of it, there was all sorts of spiritual woo woo stuff in there about god and being thankful and “living in love.” Shut. Up.  (I have license to say that, you’ll see.)

All I could think is, why? Why would anyone post this for the world to see?  This is essentially a, very personal, on-line diary and, I mean really – WHO READS THIS SHIT? I know what you are thinking.  I know, I READ IT, but in my defense, and I am being defensive, I read it for mama bear reasons.  This particular blogger is my older daughter’s stepmother and her posts were a window into my girl’s experiences when she was at her father’s home.  Let me tell you, the stepmom does not practice what she preaches.

Ok. So. Despite that really icky first blog experience, I got over myself and am here today launching my own bright, shiny new blog – something, back then, I never, in a billion, trillion, gazillion years, would have ever thought to do.

What happened between then and now? It’s pretty simple, really.  I have always loved to write and I decided to go for it.  I spent the past year feeling unchallenged, unfulfilled and unaccomplished and quietly FLIPPING OUT about my life. (I’ll bet it has something to do with staring 50 in the face.)  True, I’ve had somewhat of a career in graphic design, and I did bring two amazing people into the world but, I have been ready to move on from graphics and I want to, need to, do more than be a mom. So, after what probably was a certifiable mid-life crisis, I guess I just finally decided that I could, I should, give writing a go.

On what I thought was sort of a symbolic day – my 48th birthday – I started a Journalism class at Santa Barbara City College.  This class has BLOWN ME AWAY – I am loving every minute of it.  Seriously.  Now I can’t stop reading and writing and thinking about ways to work as a journalist.  How cool would that be?

So for starters, I thought I’d write a blog.  I experience funny stuff at home and out in the world ALL THE TIME and I’ve decided to write about it right here for the world to see.  I think it’s going to be fun and hopefully it will be a little entertaining too.  I promise not to be mundane and I promise not to write about any new couches I may happen to buy.

Stay tuned.

Last night was back to school night at my girls’ school. On the way home, my fifth grader was going over her syllabus for the school year, excitedly announcing each subject she would be studying. When she struggled with pronunciation, I was happy to chime in and help… as-tron-o-my, chem-is-try, ecol-o-gy. But when she asked for definitions of her subjects, that was a whole different matter.

She asked me “Mommy, what’s sta-ti-stics?” I took a deep breath and answered “Well, honey, statistics is… uh… well it’s sort of… it’s the study of…” F*ck! I thought to myself – I know exactly what statistics is, I think, but I just can’t put it into words. Thankfully, Claire quickly sensed my ineptitude, put me out of my misery and said “that’s ok, Mom, I’ll ask Dad.” I felt like such a dunce.

But wait, there’s more. Then she asked “Mom, what’s ecol-o-gy?” “Oh,” I thought, “this one will be easy.” But again, I was stumped. Deer-in-headlights dumbfounded. I could see the 1970′s ecology logo right there in my mind’s eye – does that count? And well, I knew what it was, or at least I thought I knew what it was but, again, the words didn’t come. Again, I felt like such a dunce. This time Claire was kind enough not to say she’d ask Dad, but I knew she would.

Then I started thinking about the journalism course I started this week and my interest in becoming a serious writer and said to myself, “F*ck! (I like that word) – how can I be a journalist if I can’t even describe statistics and ecology to my ten year-old kid?” In a quick save, from what could have been a serious shame spiral, I reminded myself “ah, yes, that’s where the research comes in. That’s investigative reporting.” Phew.

It’s no secret that I wasn’t a very dutiful student – at any time – in my schooling. To that end, I’m darn lucky to get to do it again with my kids. Clearly, it didn’t stick the first time. And who knows, maybe this bonus knowledge will even help me become a real, live journalist? So far, the redo of school is working beautifully – my math skills have improved significantly, especially since fourth grade and the addition of Kumon, and now that I’m a fifth grader, again, I can’t wait to learn all sorts of bright and shiny new things like sta-ti-stics and ecol-o-gy.

Look out world, Kim gets a school re-do. And, I got to say, I am very hopeful that as I go through it for the third time, with my youngest (now in first grade), it’ll stick for good. Maybe then, four years from now, when she and I are driving home from back to school night, not only will I be able to help her pronounce her new subjects, I will actually be able to give her a description of each and every one.

P.S. It later dawned on me – ecology is the passé term for what we now call “environmentally friendly.” See. I told you I thought I knew what it was.

Yesterday we watched the Fiesta (horse) Parade with Doug’s parents. I am not at all into parades, and I’m definitely not into Fiesta, but I am into Doug’s parents and they are into the Parade. They are native Santa Barbarans and have come to every Fiesta Parade since the beginning of time. They are 87 and 86, so, their beginning of time goes back a good ways. The way Dale describes it, when she was a girl, there was not much at all that went on in Santa Barbara, except Fiesta. By her description, it seems that Fiesta was bigger than Christmas and your birthday, and any other holiday you want to toss in, combined.

Every year, Dale and Alex gather their chairs, blankets, snacks and sunhats and drive an hour, from their home in Los Olivos, down to Cabrillo Blvd and park it until the Parade starts. Every year, they sit in the same spot, directly across from Sambo’s. Yesterday’s parade started at noon. They were there, ready and waiting, by 9:30.

When we arrived, exactly as the Parade started, I had a rumble with a busy body woman who was there chaperoning a bunch of old folks that were seated, under big white canopies, on either side of Dale and Alex. It seems that her old folks, whose seats were “paid for,” were more important than our old folks who had been sitting in that spot every year since the late 1920′s and this year since 9:30 in the morning. She wanted us to move our chairs so that she could more easily take care of her old people. Yeah. Right. She may have paid for the space under the canopies, but she most certainly didn’t pay for the space where we were sitting. I held nothing back but got right up into this woman’s face, protecting my old people as she was attempting to do for her old people. I kicked her ass. No one messes with my old people.

With that taken care of, we settled in to watching the parade, ate our sandwiches and had a very pleasant time. For some reason, we had the good fortune to be seated right where the horses chose to relieve themselves. The kids thought it was both gross and hilarious. They were especially fascinated when the horses peed. It is, after all, a pretty impressive stream.

After about an hour and a half of horse after horse after horse, and after the novelty of their bathroom habits wore off, the girls were restless and wanted to go home. We just had a while longer to hang on. And then, there it was, the end of the parade – the last float followed, by a block or two, by a street sweeper. They really waste no time when it comes to cleaning up after a parade.

Then the oddest thing happened. As soon as the last float went by, a group of about 10 men, ranging in age from early twenties to mid forties, ran into the street and started pointing at and discussing – the horseshit. They ran back and forth from pile to pile, pretty frantically, as to study the shit quickly before the street sweeper came and took it all away.

Doug, his folks and I all stared at these guys wondering – what the hell are they doing? It seemed that they were discussing the qualities of the poop and what the horses may have eaten before the parade.

And of course I had do know. So, I jumped out of my seat, ran over to where they were all huddled around a big pile and said “you’ve got to tell me… what are you guys doing?” One guy explained: they each put money in a pot, then, before the parade starts each drew a chalk circle on the street. When the parade was over, the one whose circle contained the most manure won the pot.

Well, we all thought that was just hilarious and that their contest certainly added a new twist to the parade. Maybe next year, in addition to the chairs, blankets, snacks and sunhats we will bring sidewalk chalk and see if we can make a little money on the side. Maybe then, our old people can afford to buy seats under the big white canopy so they can be just as important as the other old people.

The good news is that they would never want to be.

It’s day 12 of our Hawaiian vacation. I feel crazy lucky to be able to have come here, especially for two full weeks. It’s been great, for the most part but… I have decided that I am, officially, a vacation retard. And actually, I feel like a spoiled brat vacation retard at that.

Pretty much everyone I know would cut off their left arm (or nut, as the case may be) to spend 2 weeks on the Big Island with nothing much to do each day but to decide… hmmm – should my first swim of the day be in the ocean or in the pool? WTF – I say to myself. Why can I not just let it all go – relax and be fucking happy? It’s cuz I am neurotic, that’s why.

I have decided this. Vacations are for people who work their asses off, feel fulfilled and accomplished and who deserve to sit on their worked-off-asses and relax – with a Mai Tai, or seven. Now while I know that I do a lot and I know that raising kids is no flippin’ cake walk… I can’t exactly feel that I have deserved this vacation – or any vacation for that matter. I’m forever tortured with the angst that I want to/need to accomplish something (other than bringing two amazing people into the world) in this lifetime and have yet to do it. And lord knows – I ain’t getting any younger. 48 next month? Fuck.

I’ve decided that there are vacations and there are trips. Vacations are for the body. Trips are for the mind. I guess they are both for the soul. I am a trip girl – I thrive on intellectual and cultural stimulation. THRIVE on it! Crazy as I’m sure it seems – I would be happier plopped down in the middle of New York City for 2 weeks, than plopped down on a Hawaiian beach for 2 weeks.

I know, I’m a FREAK! (I can just hear Jenna now… “I hate you – you freak!”) But this has been a problem or rather a neurosis of mine for as long as I can remember.

When I was 19 my mom rented a house in the South of France for the summer and bought tickets for all of us (she, my brothers and me) to sail over on the (swanky) QE2 from New York. I said “thank you, but I am going to stay home (LA), work at Haagen Daz (for minimum wage [@ $3.35 in 1981]) and hang out at the beach with my friends.” It was a blast of a summer. I have no regrets.

When, at age 26, I went on an “open-ended” solo trip to Australia – after a month or so, I was tortured. TORTURED I SAY. There I was – this young, college-educated, able-bodied person – lollygagging around Australia doing… what exactly? Yeah it was an adventure, and I learned to dive and drank some beer and ok the affair with the dive instructor was damn fun but… I was anxious. I needed to get home and get to work. Needed to get busy in my career. And so I did -ish.

Here I am 20+ years later and I am just as freakin’ anxious. No, I’m more anxious. Now I’m an old, college-educated, able-bodied person – lollygagging around Hawaii doing… what exactly?

It’s just been like that for me for ever. I wish more than anything I could just take a Stepford Wife pill, or turn my brain off or get my hands on some good sedatives but… so far it’s just me and my unfulfilled ambition trapped in my head wherever I go. Even when it’s to “paradise” for two weeks.

Don’t hate me cuz I’m tortured.

Aloha.