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A Night With The Head and the Heart

I recently had the pleasure of attending the second-best concert I've ever been to.  

 

I wish I could say I've been a fan of The Head and The Heart for years, because then I wouldn't have been missing out all this time. Sadly, that's not the case. It wasn't until a couple months ago that I heard them for the first time. A very dear friend of mine was in the area for a brief visit. Upon having the "I'll miss you so much," conversation dear friends have before parting ways for an indefinite amount of time, she told me about a song I simply had to hear.

 

"It's about friends leaving," she said.

 

Later that week, she posted a live video of The Head and The Heart performing a song called Rivers and Roads. Not live as in on-stage-surrounded-by-screaming-fans live, but live as in acoustic-performance-under-a-bridge-surrounded-by-nature-and-thing-else live.

 

 

 

 

Be still my beating heart.

 

The first listen gave me chills. The second brought tears to my eyes. I lost myself in their music and immediately dubbed them a new favorite. Days later, I was checking out upcoming concerts in the area and practically fell off my chair when I saw The Head and The Heart was scheduled to perform at the House of Blues in Cleveland. Not only was it scheduled for a day I could actually attend, but tickets were only $20 a person. Um, sold!

Then came the challenge of finding someone to accompany me to the concert. Unfortunately, since all my friends were either busy or uninterested, that person ended up being my boyfriend. I know, I know, that sounds terrible. I love him, I promise. It's just that we have completely different tastes in music. Folksy Americana is not his style. I wanted to take someone who would appreciate the experience as much as I would. I knew he wouldn't, but I also knew taking him was better than going alone.

 

Once we arrived, we were able to find a decent spot on the floor, which is standing room only. Unfortunately, our view was obstructed by the largest group of tall people I've ever seen in my life. I can only assume they were part of some club or association - Tall Persons of Cleveland Unite, or The Vertically Unchallenged Association of America, perhaps. Each one of the eight or so people in the group measured six feet or over. I felt I was being punished for the time I called Lady Gaga's platforms "ridiculously stupid." Believe me, at that moment, I wished I had Gaga's footwear! Fortunately, despite their height, I was still able to (mostly) see the stage by craning my neck at an awkward angle.

 

The opening band wasn't exactly my cup of tea. They were talented, but I didn't quite "get" their music. It didn't help that while they performed, someone in the audience was either so drugged, so intoxicated, or so out of his mind that he urinated right next to us on the floor of the House of Blues in Cleveland.

 

Yes. That actually happened.

 

Following the awkward and anger-inducing public urination (I'll spare you the details), I was more than ready for the headlining band to take the stage. I can hardly express how amazing it was when they finally did. Their music is described as "pulsing effervescently—both explosively danceable and intuitively intelligent. With Americana roots and strong vocal harmonics that swell like a river, this band finds its anchor in solid songwriting that has even the jaded humming along by the second listen." Well said, Heather Browne. Well said.

 

The minute The Head and the Heart came out, the energy in the room shifted. It was as if, rather than be the experience, they wanted to be a part of it. This is rare. Many performers come out and make it feel like they're doing you a favor. Sure, most of them are, but it kind of sucks when you feel like they're only there because they have to be. That was so not the case with The Head and the Heart, for which I was grateful. They seeemed so happy to be there. Perhaps that, along with their extraordinary talent for vocals, lyrics, and instruments, is what made us (the audience) receive them so well.

 

As they played, the audience came alive. We danced, we clapped, we stomped along to the beat of the music. It was like nothing I've ever experienced and I loved every moment. It felt like coming home.

 

My favorite part of the concert was when they played Rivers and Roads, and no, it's not just because it's my most loved song of theirs. The lyrics are incredibly meaningful to me. Upon listening to the voices surrounding me as we all sang along, I could tell I wasn't the only one personally touched by the song. It was truly a moment I will never forget.

 

If you've never heard their music, I strongly recommend it. And if you love it enough to go see them in concert, well, you can ride with me, because you know I'll be going next time they come around!

The Whistler

You may not know this about me, but I cannot whistle.

In the same way some people cannot roll their tongues – which, by the way, seems ridiculous – I cannot whistle.

When I was little, I was frustrated by my incapability to whistle. I had it in my head that it was something one could learn to do, like drawing a heart or adding two plus two. And I had certainly learned how to do those things, so learn to whistle I would!

I absolutely hated eating the crust on bread. Looking back, I think it was more superficial than anything; I just didn’t like the way it looked. At some point, my grandma started telling me eating the crust on my bread would help me learn to whistle. Taking her grandmotherly wisdom to heart, I earnestly devoured every bite of bread, crust and all, despite the fact that I was a cut-the-crust-off-my-sandwiches-please kind of girl. But, no matter how much crust I consumed, I still could not whistle! (Maybe this is why I have a carb-complex today.) It took me longer than it probably should have (aka well into my teens) to realize that I was the victim of a grandmotherly ruse.

Now that you know how much I wanted to whistle, you may be surprised to learn that whistling annoys me.

Allow me to clarify.

I don’t hate all whistling. If it’s done to catch someone’s attention or used as a Marco-Polo approach to finding someone in the grocery store, that’s fine. It's also acceptable if you are singing Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

 

However, when someone whistles for long periods of time in otherwise silent spaces, it drives me crazy. I want to scream, "WHY ARE YOU WHISTLING?" What, do these people feel the need to provide a soundtrack to my awesome and otherwise silent movie? Are they trying to spread cheer? I just don't understand. The worst part is, I would feel terribly rude saying, "Will you please stop whistling?"

 

I suppose there's nothing I can do except offer them a sleeve of saltine crackers and hope they accept. You know, to dry up the mouth.

On Time is Late

We've all heard some variation of the phrase, "If your early, you're on time; if you're on time, you're late." My choir director used to say, "Five minutes early is on time, on time is late." Then, there's the "Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable" variety. But no matter how you say it, the message is clear: show up early.

 

Punctuality is important to me. I hate being late, which makes me a hypocrite as I always seem to be - late, that is, not hypocritical. No matter what precautions I take to avoid being late, I find the odds of getting somewhere on time decrease as the likelihood of arriving behind schedule skyrockets.

 

Previously unwilling to accept my label as Chronically Late, I tried every tip and trick in the book. I've done the whole wake-up-fifteen-minutes-earlier-than-you-need-to thing and let me tell you, it does not work. Without fail, I find other things that need doing or take that much longer to pick out an outfit or do my hair. I've also tried setting the clock anywhere from five to ten minutes fast in an attempt to trick myself into thinking I was running late and therefore speeding up the getting-ready process. Yeah, that didn't work either because I kept seeing the real time on my phone or other communal clocks around the apartment.

 

Distractions and delays seem to find me no matter what I do. For example, I had plans with friends a few weeks ago. I was instructed to arrive at noon and told, "Don't be late!" (She knew I needed reminded.) That Saturday, my internal alarm clock woke me up early with hours to spare. I planned to leave at 11:15, which would give me about 45 minutes to get there even though it was only 20 minutes away. I got off to a slightly late start because I had to transfer my coffee into a travel mug. Okay, no biggie - I still had 40 minutes. I put my destination address into the GPS and was on my way. Upon exiting my apartment complex, I realized I had forgotten ponytail holders and had to turn around to retrieve them since they were vital to the day's activities. After that, I was a little later, but my ETA was still set well before noon. As I navigated myself onto the highway, I noticed the annoying light on my dashboard telling me I was running low on gas. Not just low, but dangerously low. Like, panic-inducing, on-the-red-line low. I knew I had to fill up, so I exited the highway to the gas station I knew was right off the exit. Except that I realized I had gotten off one exit early and there were no gas stations in sight. My GPS recalculated my route and I began to panic. How far would it take me until I saw a gas station!? WHY AM I SO GEOGRAPHICALLY CHALLENGED? I continued to drive, following my GPS's guidance that would lead me back on the right highway. I overestimated my distance to the entrance ramp and accidently got on another wrong highway. (Only I posess the ability to misnavigate while using a GPS.) I was a wreck, thinking a) I was going to run out of gas, and b) I was going to be late! I was terrified. Finally, my brain kicked into survival mode and I punched in fuel as a point of interest on the GPS. It wasn't long before I arrived at a gas station. What a relief! I put in my credit card and selected my fuel, then squeezed the handle on the pump. Nothing happened. Puzzled, I reselected my fuel and tried again.

 

Nothing.

 

I was about to throw down. I furiously cancelled the transaction and started over. Swipe credit card, check. Select credit option, check. Select fuel, check. Flip handle...oh, crap. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT'S what was holding me up? I flipped the stupid handle and began fueling. I didn't fill up all the way - ten bucks and I was outta there!

 

I finally entered my friend's neighborhood, which, inconveniently, is made up of narrow and winding streets. I crawled through them at a snail's pace, praying no one else would end up behind me and gesture angrily as a result of my slowness. I finally arrived a hot, sweaty mess, just two minutes late. I got out of the car, ready to offer excuses and apologies. But once I found out we were waiting on two others, who were also running late, I really didn't think it necessary.

 

 

Until I learn to be on time (read: be early), I guess I'll just have to accept a life of screaming, "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

 

 





 

You Only Live Once

Do you remember the scene in the movie A Christmas Story when Flick is dared to stick his tongue to the icy pole? Of course you do. But in case you need a refresher, it goes like this:

Flick: Are you kidding? Stick my tongue to that stupid pole? That's dumb!
Schwartz: That's 'cause you know it'll stick!
Flick: You're full of it!
Schwartz: Oh yeah?
Flick: Yeah!
Schwartz: Well I double-DOG-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.
Schwartz: I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

The triple-dog-dare. How could anyone refuse? They couldn't. And for me, the phrase "You only live once" is the adult equivalent of the triple-dog-dare. There are times I don't necessarily want to do things because I'm too tired, too grumpy, too [insert adjective here]. But when the person requesting my company, attendence, or time says, "You only live once," well, game over. Those words are the kryptonite to my Superman. I will undoubtedly pause, reflect, and say, "You're right. Let's do it."

And most of the time, I'm happy I did.

The Happiest 5k on the Planet

I run for lots of reasons. I run because it's great exercise. I run to relieve stress. I run for charity. I run to test my limits. And most recently, I ran for color.

On June 16, the Color Run came to NE Ohio. I woke up happier than a kid on Christmas morning. I had been anticipating the run for months. They don't call it the happiest 5k for nothin'!

Color - or rather, uncolor - coordinated in white shirts as instructed, we arrived on scene with plenty of time to prep for our colorsome adventure. First, we carefully applied each other's Color Run tattoos. My running partner branded the inside of his arm while I opted for bolder placement on my cheek. Our then-white Color Run sweatbands were placed around our heads. We got our "before" photos taken by fellow color enthusiasts in the parking lot, then followed the slow and steady swarm of color(less?) runners toward the start line.

Patience was hard to come by as the start time neared. Because there were so many particpants, runners took off in waves of about 1,000. We were in the third wave. We looked behind us and saw a sea of people with two things in common:

1. They all wore white.
2. They all craved color.

As we stood waiting on one side of the road, unsuspecting travelers drove by on the other. Some waved and some honked, but they all stared. I don't blame them; I'm sure we were quite the spectacle! People of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds, united by their willingness to give up their Saturday morning in order to get blitzed in "elf made" magical color dust.

After the third round of Miley Cyrus's Party in the U.S.A. (yes, the third), our time came. Our wave counted down and we were off and running, eager to lose ourselves in color madness. We headed downhill, rounded a corner, and saw it.

We didn't need the yellow flags that lined the street to know we had made it to our first color zone. Yellow color clouds exploded in the air, marking the territory for the color warriors that charged toward it. We sprang forward and ran through the sunshine colored gauntlet, welcoming color with more enthusiasm than a young bachelor welcoming a home cooked meal.

We continued our quest for color and approached the green color zone all too quickly. (We later established that the green zone was not adequately distanced a full kilometer away from the yellow, but that's okay.) Next came blue, which is when I quite literally began to taste the rainbow - ugh. The only rainbows I want to taste are made of Skittles in the bag and marshmallows in boxes of Lucky Charms. The color may be elf made, but I can pretty much guarantee that it's not a Keebler recipe!

  

Shortly after what they called the "pink" color zone (wich was really orange), we crossed the finish line. We participated in the Color Bombing of Richmond Heights 2012, joined what I would call the most unsuccessful conga line ever, and took "after" photos of each other and the street, which looked like a color crime scene. We made our way to the car, cleaned ourselves off to the best of our abilities with paper towels and water, and drove home to shower. I lathered, rinsed, and repeated. After getting out of the shower, I got back in because, after careful observation, I realized I looked like a victim of iodine (orange), abuse (blue), and jaundice (yellow). After scrubbing off my tan but not my color, I gave up. I'm lucky I'm not blonde, like my fellow Color Runner, who had purple spots on his head for at least the next 24 hours.

Now that it's over, all I have left are the memories and a very stained (and savored) once-white shirt. Color me bad glad, because I can't wait to go again next year! 

Karma's a B****

I'm not sure how many people in the slave serving industry are Hindus or Buddhists, but I do know most of them believe in karma. The idea that you get what you give has gotten me through countless nights as a slave server. But I never knew for sure that the universe punished rude patrons for treating their waiters and waitresses poorly...

...until last weekend.

I went out to dinner, where I was seated next to a table of three. From my understanding, they were displeased with the taste and/or quality of their food and decided to take it out on their server. (This is not okay.) Their server was doing all the right things, despite the rude remarks his table was making - both to his face and behind his back that left me literally shaking my head in disgust.

Cut to us leaving the restaurant, shortly after the implolite table next to us had left. As we drove out of the parking lot, what did we see? To my delight, there were the people from the table, gathered around the open hood of their car and looking distraught. I'm just guessing, but I believe they were experiencing car trouble, aka a cosmic kick in the butt for mistreating their waiter. 

Karma = 1 point.

Fine Dining Indeed

I’m a cheap dinner date. I’ve never ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and I’m not hard to please – a pitcher of beer and a good burger will do it. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate being wined and dined, but I’m accustomed to casual dining. So, imagine my delight when last weekend, I was treated to dinner at a fancy restaurant and had the most expensive meal I’ve ever eaten.

Our host took the liberty of ordering wine for the table. Our glasses were filled with a delicious, velvety cabernet that accompanied our entrees perfectly. My glass wasn't empty until the end. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

 Shortly after being seated, appetizers arrived. Two enormous chilled shellfish platters, one with three tiers and the other the length of my torso, were placed at each end of the table. Lobster, crab legs, prawns, scallops, lump crab meat, and oysters were nestled on beds of ice. It was amazing.

I put off ordering as long as possible, unable to decide which dish I should choose. Finally, I opted for a chopped salad and a filet mignon topped with crab meat, asparagus, and béarnaise sauce. Bread baskets arrived with our salads and I selected a pretzel breadstick.

It was heaven. I have never tasted bread so perfect, so warm, so soft. I could have made a meal out of that bread. But, in the (paraphrased) words of the Bible, man cannot live on pretzel breadsticks alone. So, I had only one and ate my salad.

Shortly after, the main courses arrived. The filet mignon was magnificent. It was perfectly cooked, tender and juicy. Several sides were brought to the table and served family style, including French fries, scalloped potatoes, broccoli, and potato gratin. Yes. Please. It killed me when I had to leave one bite of my steak on my plate – I couldn’t fathom another bite in my beyond satisfied belly…

…until the dessert arrived, of course. It came for the whole table, served on a large platter. I ordered a cappuccino to accompany my sampler plate, which consisted of two-bite portions of key lime pie, New York cheesecake, and chocolate lava cake. I passed on the carrot cake, unsure of how to tackle the head-sized slice that lay on the platter.

When dinner was over, I felt so full I was sure I’d never eat again. (I have, of course, but I woke up still full the next morning.) I don’t think I’ll ever forget the most expensive meal I’ve ever had…that is, until I enjoy a costlier one!

All By Myself (and Loving It)

Five years ago, I met someone who enjoyed dining and going to the movies alone. My twenty-year-old self couldn't fathom why anyone would want to see a flick or dine by themselves. Where was the fun in that?

 

Since then, I have had moments when I've briefly considered doing something like going to a restaurant or the theater alone. But they were fleeting considerations, and I've never actually done it...until recently.

 

I wanted to see a movie, but had no one to see it with me. Determined not to let that stop me, I decided to go. Alone. And it wasn't bad. Nice, actually.

 

While I stood in the ticket line, I felt a little lonely. Which may make sense, seeing as how I was, well, alone. It was a Friday night, so naturally I was surrounded by couples on date-night and groups of friends. I bravely approached the ticket window and said, "One, please," fearing the young lady at the ticket window might point and laugh at me. She didn't. I made my way into the theater and the show started. I'm surprised to say that I actually enjoyed myself. I laughed when something was funny. I even felt a tear slip down my cheek during one of the film's sadder moments. And when the movie was over, I left, certain that it wouldn't be my last time going to the movies alone.

 

Who knows? Next, I might be brave enough to have dinner alone, too.

 

I found this video later, after the fact. It's beautifully written and filmed.  

Credits: Poem written and performed by Tanya Davis, video by Andrea Dorfman.

Claire in a Box

I'm fortunate to work for a company that encourages creativity. Perhaps this is why, when walking into my office last week, I saw more than just an enormous cardboard box.

I saw possiblities.

A couple months ago, I went on a business trip with coworkers in my department. When we returned to the office, this is what we found:

We got TPd!

Tracking down the responsible parties was easy. What wasn't easy, however, was figuring out how to reciprocate...until I saw the box.

I knew what I had to do. After all, it's not every day I come across a box large enough to fit inside! I shared my vision with my coworkers and climbed into the box, nestling between pieces of white styrofoam. They closed the panels and I waited patiently. I heard them calling out for an unsuspecting colleague to assist them with relocating the box. I saw the shadow of his hand nearing the top and exploded out of the box, yelling something that sounded like this:

"AIRGRGAIRGJIRUYP!"

He was terrified. It was so good, we did it again with someone else.

I'd call the day a success.

The Hostess with the Mostess (I Hopess, Anyway)

"Why don’t you just order pizza?" he asked me.

My jaw dropped to the floor. I was shocked. Appalled, even.

"BECAUSE!" I exclaimed. "Home cooking is an expression of LOVE!"

This exchange occurred last week. It was the night before we were going to have company over for dinner, and, as always, I was stressing myself out in my ongoing attempt to make everything perfect. And, in case it hasn't been made clear, I feel cooking is an expression of love.

I know what you're wondering: What's up with the blank spaces? You see, I left them there to represent my inability to explain why cooking is an expression of love. I tried for more than an hour, but was (clearly) unsuccessful. Let's just say there's a lot of love in my family, and that my family is made up of exceptionally gifted cooks. When the family gathers, it's often over a good meal. So, I describe cooking as an expression of love. For this, I blame my mother, who poured love into every dish she ever made.

Actually, that's not true. I blame the whole family.

I blame my grandma, who cooks from scratch and does so without using a recipe. My aunt, who bakes loaves of bread so delectable, Dr. Arthur Agatston would call the South Beach Diet a book of lies after one bite. My brother, whose grilled buffalo wings make airfare to Missouri seem like a small price to pay for such a treat. My other aunt, whose gourmet cooking is worthy of the rich and famous. My sister, of course, who introduced me to the phenomenon otherwise known as maple glazed salmon and always serves five-star dishes. And my dad, who taught me how boring it would be to serve rice, fish sticks, and ramen noodles with or without egg on rotation every weekend makes some extraordinary potato and cheese soup and beef jerky so good, even a vegetarian can't resist a piece.

My family set the bar high. So no, I will not "just order pizza." Here’s what I did instead:

For the appetizer, I bought cheese from the specialty cheese section of the store. If that doesn’t say, "I love you," I don’t know what does. Blue cheese, parmesan cheese, and pepper jack cheese (don’t worry mom, I served them all at room temperature). I also set out a bowl of sundried tomato basil crackers and a dish of olives sautéed in olive oil with cloves of fresh garlic.

The main course consisted of pasta primavera, served with a garden salad and multi-grain bread, accompanies by a glass (or two) of wine.

For the grand finale, I served key lime pie. Funny story, actually. Until that night, I had never made a pie in my life. The recipe seemed simple enough, and I was feeling confident enough in my cooking abilities to give it a try. I was at the store fillling a bag with limes for said pie when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a game-changer. Perched upon a small mountain of other exotic fruits were several bags of key limes. I paused and mulled over the possiblity. I knew that juicing those suckers would be a timely task, since they are about a third the size of regular limes. However, this being my first pie, I wanted it to be as authentic as possible. I bravely grabbed a bag of key limes, keeping only one regular one in the mix. Cut to me, in the kitchen, juicing what seemed like a million key limes. I have one of those citrus juicers similar to this one, but without the cup underneath:

Mine just fits right over a cup or glass and you juice away. Which is what I was doing. Twenty-five minutes into the process, I had just over 3/4 cup of lime juice - I was almost there! Pleased with my progress, I began juicing another key lime when the worst thing imaginable happened.

I knocked the glass over.

Fortunately, not all was lost. I managed to catch the glass before it turned completely on its side, but even so, the damage was irreversable. I went from 3/4 full to just below half a cup. In more ways than one, the glass was half empty!

I took a deep breath. I walked away from the kitchen. Then I came back. Then I glanced at the counter, soaked with key lime juice. I had to walk away again. (I can be so dramatic).

I came back and observed the damage. Giving up was not an option. Actually, it was, but I am not a quitter! I reached for the last handful of unjuiced key limes with new determination and juiced them ever-so-carefully. Then I juiced the real lime. After that, I was out of limes, both regular and key, so I said, "To hell with authenticity!" and finished off the cup with artificial lime juice. You know, the kind that comes in the plastic container that looks like a lime. (You don't fool me, plastic lime. Cooking fresh is the way to go!)

In the end, the pie turned out beautifully. I garnished it with lime zest and fanned a strawberry in the center. And it was delicious, if I do say so myself. Everything is, when it's made with love.

What Not to Wear...Seriously, Please Don't

I do not consider myself to be a fashionista. I am often seasons behind the latest fashion trend, and my education on the subject is limited to the occasional episode of What Not to Wear on TLC. But, it has to be said:

Men wearing jean shorts are an abomination.

This is not okay.

If you are over the age of 12 and you own a pair, GET RID OF THEM! Light them on fire, cut them into rags, have your grandmother sew them onto a quilt. But please, whatever you do, do not, I repeat, DO NOT donate them to the thrift store. They will, no doubt, end up in the hands of an unsuspecting man whose sisters never taught him better.

Just for fun, I googled "men wearing jean shorts." My search pulled up a Twitter post, reading "If you are a man and you are wearing jean shorts, I automatically discount you for life." Ah, to be validated.

In summary...

You may wear jean shorts if:

• You are an infant or small child.
• You wish to remain single for the rest of your life.

You may not wear jean shorts if:

• You are over the age of 12.
• You want a romantic relationship.

Customer (Dis)Service

Not long ago, my girlfriends and went to dinner at Don Pablo’s. It seemed like the perfect place for several reasons:

1. Even with a large party, it doesn’t usually take long to get seated there.
2. Even though the menu as a whole doesn’t compare to Casa del Rio, their cheese quesadillas and side salads are amazing.
3. It was close to the theater.
4. Since we were seeing a movie that wasn’t showing until midnight, margaritas, chips, and salsa seemed like a great way to pass the time.

Now, before I continue, let me preface: I spent six years in the slave restaurant industry. I have been a hostess, dishwasher, busser, and server. I have stories of all genres, ranging from comedy to horror. Not only have I been the employee, but I’ve also been the customer. A very kind customer. I smile at restaurant staff, say please and thank you, and tip generously.

My friend I were the first to arrive. We approached the unsmiling hostess. When we told her there would be eight of us, she frowned deeply and said, "Oh." I asked if it would take longer to seat us on the patio, and she hesitated, so we told her we’d take whatever opened first, the patio or the dining room. She told us it’d be a 45 minute wait, which was fine, despite the fact that it was a weeknight and the place didn’t seem busy. We glanced at the time (7:00 on the dot). We asked the hostess if we could wait at the high-top tables in the bar area, and when she said yes, that’s where we went to wait…

And wait…and wait.

We watched servers pass by without so much as a glance in our direction. We looked at the clock. Minutes ticked by. At 7:08, we decided to ask the bartender for drinks because more than five minutes of waiting to be greeted is unacceptable (most places have a two-minute rule of thumb). Unfortunately, after approaching the bar, we found it void of any tender, so we continued waiting. (Isn’t the server supposed to wait on the customer and not vice versa?)

We waited…and waited. At 7:15, just as I left to ask the hostess if we could have a server, I saw a server approach our table. We ordered our drinks and explained that we were waiting for other people to arrive before getting seated in the dining room.

A short while later, we were joined by the third person in our party, who sat at our table for ten minutes before our server stopped by to take her drink order. This is when we began to go from annoyed to slightly angry. I’ve eaten at a lot restaurants, but I had never experienced a lack of service quite like this before. To sum it up thus far, we had been treated unkindly by the hostess as well as neglected by our server. Not a good start, Don Pablo’s.

At about 7:45, we were joined by about five more people in our party, who were with us 15 minutes without getting their drink orders taken. Since it was 8:00 by this time (15 minutes past when we were supposed to have gotten seated), I decided to check on the status of our table. I approached the (still unsmiling) hostess, who asked how many were in my party as if I had just walked in the door. I smiled and reminded her that I was with the party of eight and we were waiting to be seated. She faltered, then glanced at the seating chart and told me she was just waiting for one other table to open up before seating us. Then, she asked, "It’s okay if your party is split, right?"

What?

Sometimes, on extremely busy nights, restaurants ask large parties if they mind being split. That is, half of the party sits at one table and the other half sits at another, hopefully nearby. In my experience, this is only done in extreme situations. Parties should be asked if they mind being split during their first exchange with the host/hostess, or very shortly after. This should not be done after an hour of waiting. It should be done without the assumption that the party is okay with it. So, no, hostess, not, "…right?"

"Actually, we would like to be seated together," I said. My patience was wearing thin. I could tell she had probably forgotten about us completely.

"Oh," she said. Clearly, that was one of her favorite expressions. She looked uncomfortable.

"Is it going to take longer to do that?" I asked. "We were given a 45 minute wait and it’s been an hour."

"No," she said. "It should just be a minute."

I made my way back to my group. Our joiners still hadn’t had their drink orders taken. Unhappy, we decided to ask to speak with a manager. He came over to our table, where we began to describe our experience thus far.

He was not a good listener. He interrupted us at least twice, saying he had seen us all sitting there and wondered if we had wanted a table. He said he had asked the hostess if we wanted seated and that she had told him we were waiting for the patio.

Huh?

We explained we had requested whatever opened first, and he ushered us into the dining room, which to our dismay, was 90% empty.

Yes, 90% empty.

Not once did I hear him apologize. Maybe he did, but if he did, I certainly didn’t hear it. We sat down and were greeted by our server, who was very kind. She was probably overcompensating as I’m sure the manager had told her we were unhappy, which is fine. We still appreciated her kindness after the way our night was going. What we didn’t appreciate was watching the rude hostess conversing with our server moments later, shooting unfriendly glances in our direction. She was, undoubtedly, telling our server what a pain we had been, or something along those lines.

We ordered more drinks. Not only did my margarita arrive sans lime, but it also was void of the extra limes that I had specifically requested. I let it slide. After all, no one is perfect and I’d be lying if I said I never forgot to bring anything like extra lemons or limes to a table in my serving days.

We ordered our food. Several of us ordered side salads to accompany our meals, which consist of four simple ingredients: lettuce, cheese, pico de gallo (pico), and tortilla strips. All of the salads arrived without pico de gallo. When a salad only consists of three things besides the lettuce, and you’re missing one, it kind of puts a damper on things. I wasn’t going to eat my salad until I had some pico. When our server finally stopped by to check on us, we pointed out that we were all missing pico on our salads. At the time, I was scraping my friend’s pico off her plate of fajitas (she had generously offered to donate it to me). Our server did not apologize, rather, she pointed the finger of blame on a coworker by explaining (with a forced tone of politeness, if I remember correctly) that she hadn’t made the salads, but if she had, she would have remembered the pico.

Pardon me for borrowing from the hostess, but:

Oh.

A rule I’ve learned over years of customer service is, don’t blame others. If the dishwasher left a chunk of food on a fork that found its way to the table you’re serving, you don’t say, "Oh, our dishwasher must have missed that." You do say, "I’m sorry. I’ll be right back with a clean set of silverware." If the kitchen screws up a food order, you don’t tell those customers, "I assure you, I placed the order correctly. The cook is the one who messed it up." You do say, "I apologize. I’ll bring you what you ordered in just a moment."

She brought pico to the table, but didn’t offer an apology. Disappointed, I stared into my glass of water with lemon, pondering why we had – wait. Was that…? I blinked and my eyes confirmed that yes, it was. I was staring face to face with the lemon in my water, which, to my dismay, still had the sticker on it. Hmmm. If the lemon still had the sticker on it, it probably meant that the lemon hadn’t been washed prior to making its way through the slicer and into my glass.

Gross.

At this point, we had finished our meals and were more than ready to leave. What a nightmare! I understand some customers are hard to please. I’m not one of them, nor were the other seven women in my party. Treating customers kindly and with respect as well as offering them good service makes for a pleasant dining experience.

It’s not complicated.

I wrote about our experience on the website, but my complaint was limited to 1,000 characters or less, which I find disappointing. Limiting the description of an experience isn’t going to help a business better themselves. By the time I had described our experience to the point where we were seated, I was out of characters. I planned to call the general manager the next day, but between everything else I had going on, I just didn’t have time. And when I did get time, it had been several days and I feel that a call like that needs to happen as close to the incident as possible. I did receive a $25 gift certificate via mail (a result of my comments on their website, no doubt). But, after such a negative an experience, will I really go back? It’s not likely.

Twenty-five dollar gift certificate to Don Pablo’s, anyone?

The Polar Bear Jump, or, How I Ended Up Jumping into a Freezing Lake in the Middle of an Ohio Winter

While I took the plunge (quite literally) back in February, I thought it necessary to post about it since it's part of my word for the year.

I found out about the polor bear jump three days before it happened. Stow Patch had written an article about it and posted it to their Facebook page. After reading it, there was no doubt in my mind that I had to participate! I hastily researched the jump and enlisted a friend to join me that Saturday for the coldest swim of my life. I asked friends and family to sponsor me, as all proceeds would benefit Camp Quality Ohio. With their help, I exceeded my ambitious goal of $300 and ended up raising $465 in three days. And, of course I had an amazing time and story to tell. Read on.

A little about the (cold) day:

Adam (my trusty cohort and fellow adventure-seeking enthusiast) arrived to pick me up late that morning. Our excitement was doubled because the night before, he had found and purchased two pairs of matching hot pink water shoes for us to wear for the jump. Before leaving the house, we made a celebratory toast with a beer (Blue Moon Winter Abbey Ale - how appropriate) and were feeling so (prematurely) triumphant that we made a few more.

The weather was holding up fine - the forecast predicted mostly sunny skies with a high in the low forties. "Not too shabby," we thought. I even tested it by stepping outside before choosing my jump-day apparel. The sun was warm on my face, so I wore a long-sleeve shirt, sweatshirt, vest, and jeans over my bathing suit. I would soon realize my mistake! We left the house and arrived on the scene, registered, and set up a base camp on the beach. Our jumping numbers were 195 & 196, which they wrote on our hands in waterproof ink. This is when the weather began to change. The wind started howling, the sun disappeared behind clouds, and it started to snow. (Yes, snow. I guess that's why they call it a polar bear jump.) Despite the change in the elements, the crowd expanded and the beach was soon filled with people. Some jumpers donned outrageous outfits; we caught glimpses of Elvis, members of KISS, a fairy, and people dressed to the nines in tuxes and prom dresses, putting our matching hot pink water shoes to shame.

A member of KISS wades his way to shore.

Our two cheerleaders arrived one by one, first, Adam's mom, Christine, then Brian. Our time was drawing near.

They began by sharing the water temperature (37 degrees), an estimated number of jumpers (nearly 600; more than two times the amount the year before), and an approximate total of money raised ($80,000, more than two times the amount the year before). After the singing of the national anthem (during which I got teary eyed for no reason other than being overwhelmed by the good spirit of the day), things got started.

Me, pre-jump. Ignorance really IS bliss!

Jumpers were called 50 at a time to line up on the dock. When they got to the hundreds, Adam and I slowly (and painfully) peeled off layers of clothes until we wore nothing but our bathing suits. Goosebumps immediately covered our bodies as we stood in line, waiting our turn. We huddled together in an attempt to benefit from each other's body heat, but there was no body heat to be retained at that point. Later, when asked how long we had to wait in line, I answered "About ten minutes," honestly believing that I was giving an accurate timeline. Brian corrected me by informing me we were in line no more than three minutes. I guess time drags when you're freezing your ass off. Who knew?

They announced our names into the microphone as we stepped onto the platform. We looked at each other, counted to three, and leaped into the frigid waters of Portage Lakes. As I submerged, I gasped in reaction as a result of every thermoceptor in my body screaming "IT'S F*#@!&$ FREEZING!" to my brain. So much water went into my mouth as a consequence to my pre-head-above-water gasp that I wouldn't be surprised if the water levels in Portage Lakes decreased by three feet. I swam the ten feet to the dock ladder, where a smiling (and, not shockingly, sympathetic looking) young man reached for my hand to assist in my quest to get the hell out of the water and get dry. Adam, crazy man that he is, opted to swim the distance to shore. (He is braver than me.) I included a picture of his trek to dry ground so you can see the pain on his face:

Taking the plunge!

Looks painful.

We rushed back to our base camp, wrapped ourselves in towels, grabbed our bags of dry clothes, and beelined toward the changing tents. As I entered the women's 100-degree changing tent, I froze (pun intended). There was no where to move! The tent was packed with women in various stages of undress. And there were no lights! I gently pushed and stumbled my way to the far wall of the tent, where I unsuccessfully attempted to find my underwear in the dark. The lack of light, combined with the lack of space, made changing into dry clothes a difficult feat. It took awhile, but I managed to get dressed and come out alive. Adam and I drove home with the heat blasting with an air of accomplishment surrounding us. Throughout the rest of the evening, I suffered from the occasional chill. But jumping was something I'll never forget, and I'm sure glad I did it!

The Write Set of Mind

"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." – Sylvia Plath

To put it eloquently, I love to write. Chances are, you (yes you, reader) know this. I became what I like to think of as a "serious writer" in fourth grade. This was when I decided to begin my first novel. I can see you sitting there, a small smile on your face, thinking, "Aw, how cute." But no, seriously. I began my first novel at the ripe age of nine years old. I would park myself in front of the computer for hours creating characters, scenes, and various plot lines. The font was size 12, Times New Roman, and it was single spaced. I never did finish that untitled first novel, but when I abandoned the project, it was more than 100 pages long.

In fifth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Roberson, would occasionally distribute short story assignments. Amid my classmate’s groans, I’d quite literally squirm in my seat as my mind came alive with possibilities. I wrote about a haunted Halloween, a man who escaped slavery by creating a look-alike robot, America’s first settlers. One of my proudest moments was when one of my stories was selected to read out loud to the class.

In middle school, I further enhanced my skill by keeping a journal in which I documented the inner workings of my preteen mind. I documented my hopes, my dreams, and my downfalls. Interactions between my crushes and me were carefully written and analyzed. (I still remember the time Dillon Lees played with my hair in Spanish class – sigh.)

High school led me to discover the healing power of poetry. I enjoyed the challenge of making rhymes, or not. I still wrote in my journal, but poetry was another, more abstract, outlet. I loved it that I could write poems, hiding meaning between the lines. I would make references of "him," and the audience never had to know who "he" was. (Sometimes I didn’t even know.) I poured myself onto pages in stanzas, and it was beautiful.

Fast-forward to college, where opportunities to write creatively were far and few between. I didn’t let that stop me. I was determined to express myself through my writing voice. I added sarcasm and (what I hope was) wit to an essay on utilitarianism. Even though I wasn’t asked to, I shared my opinion at the end of a final paper on Darwinism (read: BS). Even when it was quite literally impossible to be creative (mathematics, this means you), I still poured my heart and soul into penning group member evaluations as a last-ditch effort to be creative. I was relieved when I declared a major that allowed me to write, with my creativity as my only limit…

…which leads us to now. As much as I’d like to resume writing in a journal, which I stopped doing shortly after high school, I won’t for a long list of reasons you probably don’t want to hear. So, on a less personal note, I opted to enter the blogging world, where I plan to write whatever I want. And for me, that’s the beauty of it.


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