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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