Worth the wait

About forty years ago, give or take a few, the biggest smallest city in the world decided to open a restaurant. Now there were a few good places here and there, full of young talent, but this particular group wanted to compete with other cities (regardless of their size). After some research and scraping together some money, they opened for business in a temporary place. Back then the restaurant was a novelty and opening day turned out very well. It seemed as though the restaurant would get a five-star rating in no time.

There were high hopes and lofty expectations. The owners of the restaurant thought that immediate success was assured. After all, the biggest smallest city practically put its particular brand of cuisine on the map. Unfortunately, back then, the other cities had a different palate and their patrons ate high on the hog for years. Other cities wouldn't look in the biggest smallest city's direction, let alone the restaurant. Still, the restaurant had a good local following and felt it may take a couple of years to show a profit and be awarded five-star status.

Year after year the restaurant staff worked on the menu. A couple of dishes were great standouts, but the kitchen always ran out when people expected them to be on the menu. Sometimes the food came to the table cold or unappetizing. Patrons wanted what was promised to them, but they were told that the restaurant would hire better people and fix the problems with the menu. But instead of working on this, the restaurant owners focused on a new location.

After several years, the restaurant finally relocated to their permanent place and expectations were high. It had new kitchen equipment and the owners bragged to fill every seat in the restaurant and provide the patrons what they expected: a five-star meal.

Unfortunately, the patrons discovered that a new facility doesn't make much of a difference if the food is lousy. Despite the new surroundings, the restaurant earned a bad reputation for terrible food. Every once in awhile, a staff member got the order right, but this was rare. Other cities thought the restaurant would never amount to anything. Some patrons still ate at the restaurant, but they wore masks and carried antacid with them at all times.

There were signs in the windows of the restaurant over the years: "help wanted", "under new management", "two for one", "hey, we're practically giving it away!" There was a high turnover rate. Good staff members went to the other cities to perform. Those that stayed tried to work the kinks out of the menu. They had great recipes, but they never came out the same way every time. A few head chefs were let go after many promises of change, only to either try weird fusion cuisine (which never works) or tried to play it safe by blaming the decor of the restaurant for their failures. The patrons, who continued to eat there, ate half-heartedly. They didn't want to change restaurants; they wanted their restaurant to change...for the better. If the restaurant couldn't be big in the biggest smallest city, how could it possibly be big anywhere else?

One year there was a storm and the patrons fled. When they returned, the restaurant was damaged. There was talk that the staff would relocate and the restaurant would be closed forever. True, the restaurant didn't do as well as others in other cities, but the patrons felt it was their restaurant that served the food they liked. Patrons had been deprived for a long time and they craved it. They starved and wanted it back. The owner of the restaurant hired a new staff, a new head chef, and made preparations to prepare for the grand reopening.

The head chef wasn't as flashy as previous chefs who worked in the restaurant, yet he seemed more consistent than the ones in the past. Patrons returned with guarded optimism. Dishes were recognizable with quality ingredients. Occasionally a tray would drop or a dish would be underdone, but at least something positive was being accomplished. Reviews were becoming better, especially after dealing with the aftermath of rebuilding. The second year at being head chef of the restaurant, the restaurant received a three-star rating from his efforts. It was the closest the restaurant ever came to achieving five-star status. It was disappointing that the restaurant couldn't compete further, but at least the restaurant was improving. More patrons made reservations and critical reviews weren't quite as scathing.

The head chef hired different staff members and worked with the assemble afforded him. After forty-something years, the head chef found what the restaurant lacked. There was always talk of a secret ingredient by former head chefs that never materialized. It wasn't an ingredient that was lacking; it was the method. The head chef went through the recipes and found the ones that complimented all of the ingredients available. If he couldn't get his desired effect with one, he'd make a substitution with one of equal value. One ingredient didn't overpower a dish. One dish didn't stand out over another. They all had to work together to make each dish the best it could be and all dishes had to arrive at the table at the same time. Suddenly the dishes were hot, appetizing, flavorful, and satisfying. The restaurant didn't have one successful week, but several in a row. Patrons lined up around the block. Never in their wildest dreams did they think that they'd have to wait for a table. But it was worth the wait.

The restaurant had a great year and so did the biggest smallest city in the world. Other cities flocked to the restaurant in droves, especially for the most important night of the year. For the first time ever, in the history of the restaurant, they achieved four-star status. For so many years the restaurant struggled and though perservering adversity had managed to do what some believed could not be done. Patrons danced in the streets, masks and antacid long forgotten. No one cared about other cities or other cuisines. The patrons never thought they could get that close to five-star status.

Tomorrow night is the big feast for that last elusive star. The final proving ground to all the other cities, the naysayers, the critics; but if the restaurant is successful in achieving it, the victory won't be for themselves. The ones who will savor it the most won't be the restaurant owner, the head chef, or the staff. It will be the patrons who came every week for years dining on what was offered, hoping for something better. Tomorrow, here's hoping, that they have the best meal ever.

Bon Appetit!

Tender and mild

I hope everyone reading this had a wonderful Christmas with friends and family. Mine was filled with blessings recognized.

In the past I've busied myself with many lists: Christmas cards, gifts to order and mail, ingredients for treats such as my grandmother's peanut butter fudge, and items for the Christmas meal. Every year I attempt to send out the cards earlier, buy and mail off the gifts as soon as possible, and pay all the expenses off as quickly as possible. It's my version of the holiday Olympics and my main focus from the week before Thanksgiving to the second week of December. Not this year.

Dad and I have lived together for many years and spend all holidays together, most by ourselves. Most of my friends live out of state and those locally have families and traditions of their own. It was different when I was a child. Dad loved to see me to go under the tree and rip open the wrapping paper. Now that I'm in my 40s and he no longer drives, our "tradition" has been to go to Walgreen's where I head for candy isle and pick out two boxes of chocolates (my birthday is on the 15th) while Dad goes to the card section and select funny cards for my birthday and Christmas. Not this year.

Two distinct medical issues converged upon Dad in October. Unbeknown to us, his appendix had been leaking and was on the verge of rupturing. He was admitted into the hospital in critical condition and had emergency surgery once his blood was thick enough to operate (blood thinners). The infection caused dehydration and left him weak. The other complication was his enlarged prostate. Before the surgery he was barely emptying his bladder. During the convalescence, he needed the use of a catheter bag. Dad was discharged with one and understanding the nuances of the device was a learning curve for both of us. Over the past two months, he developed two nasty urinary tract infections, both requiring emergency room visits. The most recent one put him in the hospital a couple of weeks ago.

Dad's had different medical situations over the years and has gone through dozens of tests and medication changes; yet, despite what Dad has been through, he has exhibited the same mild-mannered, easy going attitude he has shown as long as I have known him.

For example, he was in CCU when the Saints/Cowboys game was televised. He had the game on when I went to see him during the last visiting hour of the day. It was the first time he had the TV on since being admitted.

"All I could get were Muppets on the TV," Dad said, "and the nurse came and put the game on. I should've stuck with the Muppets."

Dad has never given up. With each physical challenge, he has challenged himself to do more to become stronger. I'm very proud of him.

Over the past few months, I've had days where I've felt like Joan of Arc or something that needs to be scraped off the bottom of a shoe. We've taken things as they come along, but it felt as though bad tidings came in rapid-fire mode. I felt helpless with Dad going through medical crises as though I served no important purpose. I was reminded by a good friend that the human body is dynamic and there are internal armageddons going on without anyone's knowledge. The human body, as does life, changes in an instant and we have no control over those changes.

I realized that my role has never truly changed. As his caregiver, I coordinate his appointments, check his medications, and make sure he receives regular medical attention. As his daughter, the most important task is to love him. Nestled within the medical issues is the essence of my father. When Dad returned from surgical recovery, I went to his bedside in CCU. Dad had IVs coming out of both arms, connected to monitors for his heartbeat and blood pressure, and looked tired. The first thing he asked me what how I was doing.

The blessings that I recognize this holiday season are numerous. I have friends and family who love and care for us. I'm fortunate to work for a company that understands what I've had to do over the past few months and work with great people who have pitched in during my absence. We've had great support from the hospital, home health, and his doctors. I don't take the basics for granted: a home, a job, a car that runs, food in the pantry, and good health. Now that's a worthwhile list! More important, Dad is on the road to recovery. We still have challenges ahead, but we'll get through them as we always have.

Dad and I were fortunate on Christmas Day -- he was discharged from the hospital. We didn't exchange presents and didn't need to. Lunch consisted of homemade biscuits with pork and beans, and dinner was a can of vegetable soup we split. We spent time together and it was time well spent.

I hope you all had as meaningful a holiday as I had.

Take care and travel light

--Kat

JDRF campaign 2009 - homemade prizes

Funny how life imitates art...or plagiarizes it.

When I learned that my company planned to have a corporate team at JDRF this year, I fell back on a motto I've used when coordinating the kickoff meetings: go with what works. The candy vases I made last year went over well. They were a good incentive for selling raffle tickets and they came out "cute".

I attended the JDRF luncheon, which is the chapter's "kickoff meeting". They distribute the collection envelopes, posters, etc., for captains to use for their company or family teams. This year JDRF had a plastic tub with a removal lid with a slot for change or cash. Sort of like a shaker can. When I saw it, I thought it would make a great candy tub as a raffle prize. Only one issue: shrink-wrap requires heat and the tub doesn't like heat very much. In fact, I had to hold back or I would have created some form of modern art. Molded plastic shrink wrap encasing melted plastic and molten chocolate bars. Possible art titles: "sweets beyond reach" or "booby prize for residents of Hell". Still, the tubs fared well.

When I decided to do the candy vases and jars this year, I went to Wal-Mart on a recon mission. I looked to see what they had as far as inexpensive candy and just to get some creative ideas in general. One of their new offerings is something called a "Halloween beaker". It's shaped like a chemistry set beaker jar: long, narrow neck and a round base with a flat bottom. There's bone-shaped hard candy (what it tastes like is unknown) and it's only filled 1/4 of the way up. The price was three bucks. I came up with the candy vase first and, in my humble opinion, blows their cheap imitation sky high. Not to mention that recycling vases is a great way to get people involved since I received all of the vases this year via donation, so no additional cost there.

Although the overall look of the vases were good last year, I wanted something better than florist foam wrapped in gift box paper as a stopper. While at Wal-Mart, I noticed in the candy aisle different baked good items for Halloween/fall. One that got my attention was a pack of cupcake paper cups with pumpkin cut-outs on toothpicks. Obviously they were meant for baking cupcakes, but I came up with the idea of covering the top of the candy vases with an inverted paper cup and use the toothpick on top as decoration. I still used the gift box paper as a stopper, but sticking the toothpick into it seemed easier than using florist foam. On some of the vases, I wrapped the paper cups with different colored ribbons, which looked great against the different colored M&Ms and Skittles. I placed all the vases in a box with a lid. I should have considered the height space because all of my little pumpkins were a little bent. They were easily straightened out, but being the perfectionist, it bugged me.

The large square jar should look familiar. It's the same one from the picture last year. It was donated to me by the person who won it as a prize last year. One of the assistants working out at a job site won it this year. We'll see if it gets recycled in 2010.

I'm unsure if I'll do this again next year. I bought gift cards as part of the office raffle offerings and they always go first before any of the candy vases. The superintendents decided to do their own raffle and managed to get four power tools donated for it. In one week, they sold over $2,000 worth of tickets. The office raffle garnished $200. Never underestimate the attractive allure of winning your very own chainsaw!

Spin doctoring spinning

Back in July I had a strange encounter with two women I went to high school with, and all before an event called the Red Dress Run, which led me to my recent torment with the object to the left of this prose.



My friend Val, her boyfriend Doug, and their friends were coming to town for a Red Hashers' event called the Red Dress Run. One of the largest groups occurs in New Orleans and there is one simple rule: everyone (including men) have to wear a red dress. It's a pub crawl and about 3,700 showed up for the event. But this post is not to describe the event, but that the events prior to the run were the catalyst for change and the cause of my torment.



The run began early Saturday afternoon, but I wanted to get an early start. I went to Royal Blend on Metairie Road -- my weekday haunt before work -- for breakfast fuel. During breakfast I read through the Gambit, started going through the health section, and began reading an article about a woman, 38, who weighed over 400 pounds. The picture showed the woman standing at attention and looking unhappy. I've never been happy with most of the pictures taken of me, but then I'm very critical of myself. As I read more into the article, the woman's name was revealed and I was shocked. The article was about Noelie Burke, salutatorian of Immaculata High School's class of 1986 -- my class.



I tried to conjure up a memory of Noelie, but nothing came. I don't remember having classes with her or doing any of my activities with her. I put my high school tenure in my mental rear view mirror years ago. She wasn't skinny then, but she wasn't as she was in the first picture I saw of her. I read more and she was told by her doctor that she would need lap band surgery and she wouldn't have it. She tried diets that failed until she came upon one that had a website with a support crew and a meal plan she stuck to. The article described her as wearing a 7X, unable to stand for any length of time due to her weight bearing down on her frame, and health problems that were attributed to her weight. It took her two years, but she lost 215 pounds and is now at a size 14. The next page of the article showed a smiling Noelie, thinner than I had ever seen her, and she looked like she did over 20 years ago. I'm proud that she did this for herself.

I always thought of high school as a business deal. I got out of it what I put into it. I fulfilled the requirements, received the diploma, and now we're even. Despite the fun moments, the times where I succeeded and where I felt obstinately optimistic, there were bullet holes of disappointment, awkwardness, and intellectual stagnation. For the most part, I hated it. I didn't think outside of my few friends that I truly belonged or anything I did matter. I didn't think anyone would remember me, let alone care. As I left Royal Blend, I concentrated on the run ahead and put any thoughts of high school behind me, but retained my feeling for what Noelie accomplished and reminded myself that I can change my outlook as easy as my body if I applied both.

Later I went to the Farmer's Market on Girod and Magazine and then visit PJ's Coffee place a block down the street. I hadn't been at that PJ's for years. I was journaling over coffee and two dark chocolate covered pretzels (thoughts of Noelie's progress inspired me to stick to only two) when I noticed a woman in a red dress pass by. I caught her profile before she left. I didn't shout, but I spoke loudly, "Trudy?"

She stopped at the door with a coffee cup in her hand, saw me, smiled widely and said, "Kathleen!"

I got up and we hugged. Trudy Raiford was also part of my graduating high school class. I've seen her picture on a sign outside her chiropractic office on Clearview. She was featured in a fitness profile in the Times-Picayune just before our 20th reunion. At the time I had lost 38 pounds. The article profiled her as losing more weight than me, looking more toned than me, and she ran the levee, did marathons, went over Niagara Falls in a barrel (kidding, but you get the idea). I don't begrudge her now, but at the time I measured my success against hers and marked it up as one more reason I don't "keep in touch".

Through our talk, I learned a few surprising things. Trudy went to the 10th reunion...and hated it. I went to the 5th and felt the same way. There were women who got drunk, tried to put on airs, and everyone hung out with the exact groups of people they hung out with in high school. Trudy wanted it to be more of a mingling of people. She reasoned we were all different from when we went to high school and should be able to converse as adults. Nah!

We didn't hang out in high school. She was part of the SGA and I was a different breed of cat. I was captain of the quiz bowl team even though there were honor students on the team (I made honor roll once by the skin of my teeth). I earned my sports letter in Freshman year on the bowling team and was all-star twice, yet I was 110 pounds soaking wet so I wasn't a "jock". Trudy was voted "most likely to be successful" and I felt I was "most likely to be least remembered".

Time does change things and people change. Her son is 20 and graduating from UNO with a psychology degree. She insisted that he always go to a coed school. She said her days at Immaculata taught her that coed education gives a more balanced view of life and relationships. I've given that some thought since I saw Trudy and she's right. I went to Immaculata to get away from the awkwardness around boys. Instead of dealing with their behavior and getting through my shyness, I avoided them entirely.

She insisted that I look the same as I did in high school. Trudy, for all intent and purposes, looks the same as well. She laughed about the fitness article, saying she can't walk on a treadmill. She claimed that she must be ADD and needed to do other exercise classes. We talked about kickboxing and training and, through our discussion, I thought how sad it was that we didn't hang out more in high school.

Soon she left the shop as did I. I didn't see her at the run, but I'm sure our paths would cross again.

These two incidents coincided with my recent annual doctor's visit. Everything's fine. In fact, if I continue to maintain or lose some weight, I could either go on a low dose of cholesterol-lowering medication or be taken off of it entirely. I was put on it when my level in 2004 spiked at 243 and heading over borderline.

Sadly, vanity still wins by a nose in the race with health as my motivation for change. I decided to try a spinning class and give myself more cardio. Before spinning, time was my indicator of how well I was doing. Now it's measured in sweat. Not perspiration, sweat.

I tried a spinning class years ago, when spinning first came out as the new fitness trend. It was so popular you needed a special pass to attend class. You could tell the disciples of the discipline in the room. They had padded shorts, "spinning" logo shirts, and racing quickly nowhere. I had my bike set to a high resistance and pedaled for 45 minutes. The class screamed cadence and did "jumps" and it felt like boot camp. When class ended, and I got off the bike, my legs felt like painful jelly. How am I going to drive myself home, I wondered. I never went to another, until two weeks ago.

My friend Sherian taught the class and I took it easy. I sweated more than I did in kickboxing. I didn't feel any pain afterwards. I took the class the following week and then other that same week. I wasn't sure if I should get special spinning shoes. Sherian recommended getting shoes if I liked the class, but I wasn't sure until I was in the dressing room after class number three. I disrobed and caught my reflection in the mirror. I was starting to form a segmented abdomen. I ordered a pair that night.

I found the website Sherian recommended, found a pair that was reasonably priced, and it said in the ad that it was highly recommended for indoor spinning exercise. It took a week for the shoes to come in, and I had to wait until the week after Labor Day to try them out.

Monday I went in with my new shoes and I attached my pedal clips to the bike. I had my water bottle, towel, new shoes, and a partial six back (a two pack?) and was ready to go. At the beginning of the class during warm up, I heard a clicking. Click...click was under my right shoe. Sherian noticed immediately and came to me. The other members were busily spinning away. I put the pedal clips on backwards (the strap buckle goes on the outside of the shoe). She asked me to show her the bottom of the shoe.

Techno music was pumping, but she asked, "where are your clips?"

"What clips?" I had to speak loud enough for her to hear.

"Didn't the shoes come with clips?" I shook my head. She explained that there were clips that attached to the bottom of the shoe and that attaches to the bike. This made for a better, smoother ride. I thought the cool part about the shoes were that there weren't laces to get caught in the pedals and they were lighter than my sneakers.

"Just make sure you don't come out of the pedals," she warned. Great. I was paranoid for the rest of the class that my feet would fly out of the rubber baskets and I'd hurl to the ground in a face plant.

I called the bike place today to see if they had the clips. They could order them, but the salesman said that my brand of shoes' clips wouldn't fit the spinning bikes at Elmwood. He said they all go to Elmwood and they won't fit. What began as a tool for improving my health was causing me stress to train wreck it. These simple shoes were simply supposed to be on the end of my legs and work silently in unison with my feet.

I don't have an end to my story other than I might get clips for my shoes. Or I might return the shoes for the right pair of shoes. Or I may eat another piece of ice cream cake and call it a day.

Oh, to be in hot water

This is a story of what happens where something simple goes horribly, horribly wrong. Two weeks ago yesterday, I noticed while washing the dinner dishes that the water wasn't getting hot. Turned out that the 7-year old, 40-gallon, white, upright hot water heater had a leak. The equivalent of a rod going through an engine block -- certain death requiring immediate replacement.

I went though my paperwork and found the 2002 receipt from the home improvement place I had purchased it and went there to purchase a new one and have it installed. From my distant memory, I didn't recall any issues involving the store or the subcontractor working for the store who installed it. This is called repeat business, but it's also business in the post-Katrina, economic downturned world.

First I couldn't find someone to wait on me since they seemed understaffed. Once I did, I had to wait for the right person from the right department to wait on me. Once he was available, I had to go through the "new" way of doing things. First, the subcontractor had to come to my house, for a $35 fee, and inspect the old heater to make sure I was getting the right one. I had my receipt from 7 years ago and it said on there plainly what I needed. Granted, the model numbers may have changed, but the requirements remained the same. Nope, had to do it their way. Still, I purchased what I knew I needed and paid the fee for the inspection.

Thursday they called and said they would arrive at the house the next day to inspect the hot water heater. The guy who came out opened the heater door and was attacked by wasps. One stung him on his forehead. Apparently there was no need to inspect any further and would contact the store with an estimate.

Now you're probably wondering why I haven't mentioned a herd of wasps living in my heater until now. I learned off of the canister of wasp spray that they are domicile in the early morning and evening hours, which was when I opened the door. And I never looked up at the door jamb where two combs were positioned. I focused my attention on the bottom of the heater the entire time. So, over the weekend, I used the heater house as wasp killer target practice and removed the nests with the end of a broom handle (covered in foil, of course, since I'd like to use the broom again without wasp kill on it).

Monday I received a call from the store. I was quoted $511 for the installment, which rivaled the price of the heater. When I asked on why the price was so high, I was told that connections needed to be replaced. I just spent the last five days boiling water on the stove for bathing and washing dishes. I wasn't going to haggle. I had to go to the store and sign a contract and pay for the installation.

When I arrived, the information had not been entered into the system. As the sales girl entered the information, she noticed that the estimate from the subcontractor had not included pricing for the materials, which would have made the price higher. The guy who had called me (we'll call him "Tom") was new and stood next to her. Tom said that that was the price he was told to tell me and that was the price I was going to pay. She fussed about how things would not be able to override and someone was going to be mad. Tom insisted that the store had to stand by what was quoted. The zone manager came in along with another manager and Tom continued his battle cry. Zone manager took over for the sales girl and, with Tom at his side, began to manipulate the data.

The associate manager said the subcontractor was too high to begin with and was their only installer and she tried to explain to me how the sub had screwed up. I was calm and quiet enough to be heard. "All I know was what I was told," I said simply. I wasn't going to budge. I figured I might get out of this easier than I put in or I'd tell them to cancel everything, which was the last thing I wanted to do. The associate manager and the sales girl went away. The zone manager was able to code the materials differently, overrode this, changed that, and soon my total for the install was $470. Again, I wasn't going to quibble. I paid for it after signing the contract.

Tuesday the subcontractor called only to find out if I had any contact with the store. On Wednesday, one week after all this nonsense began, I was told by the store that the installation would not take place -- they had fired the only subcontractor who would do the job. Apparently the subcontractor wanted to add additional money on top of what they didn't put in the first estimate. It sounded like a fight ensued because the subcontractor's "quote" for installation of the hot water heater would be $2500. No way under God's green earth would I allow that to happen. That's why the store fired them. Their only alternative was to refund the install and the inspection fee, but said I could still have the heater. This was too much and I told them I wanted a refund on everything. I'd go without hot water until I could figure out how to fix this.

I called my old contractor to get a recommendation of a plumber. When he learned about my plight, he said he'd stop by that day and check on it himself. He checked it out, went to another home improvement store, bought the hot water heater, and had it installed before I came home from work that night. It was a relief and I was grateful. He charged me for the heater and installation, but nothing over that. I called him that night to thank him. He said that going without hot water was an emergency and he would have gotten to it that night if he had had a full schedule that day.

It's been a week since the install and I still notice how nice it is to turn the faucet and receive hot water pouring into a sink of dirty dishes or filling up a wash basin. I don't know how the old folk used to boil water on a wood-burning stove every day of their lives. I don't know how our ancestors went to the well with buckets or the stream with animal skins and carry water back to their dwellings. I'm just glad that I don't have to do without anymore.

RIP: Saturn Mike

"We're having a great day here at Saturn!" is how the receptionist always answered the phone at the dealership since I first began calling them in 1997. It didn't change today with my last phone call. I had hoped to have the oil changed at the dealership this Saturday one last time, but it was not meant to be. They close their doors for good on Wednesday. I thought there would be more time. Newspaper reports stated that the Harvey store would remain open for a few months. Like with everything else these days, you can't depend on anything staying in place without decaying before your eyes.

I called Mike last week when I heard reports about Saturn Armageddon: vehicles no longer in production, parts no longer made, all dealerships shutting down simultaneously, and my car would only hold value in Confederate money. Mike tried to reassure me that Saturn vehicles would be produced until the end of 2009 with an option going into 2010. And he discussed the various scenarios about how the national brand of Saturn could still be saved. The list of possible buyers, possible countries of assembly, and possible conglomerates looking into continuing the brand sounded like the end of football season and the die-hard Saints fans looking at wildcard angles in the hopes of even getting to the playoffs.

Despite his jovial mood (jokingly asked me if I wanted to buy a car!), his talk was somber and he didn't know how long they would be operational. At that point, they were going from month to month not knowing if they would still be going for another month. He wanted to stay with Saturn for as long as he could. Today's call to Mike felt like a condolence over a death.

I remember buying my first new car, a Saturn 1997 SL1, from Mike. It was my first car buying experience. Dad was at my side, but he remained silent as I asked questions and took the test drive. Once the price was decided, the options discussed, and I had forked over my trade-in and money, I asked Dad how he felt and he said he trusted Mike. Mike was former Army. An older gentleman. Knew everything there was to know about every part of the car. What impressed me the most was that he gave me advise on purchasing cars made by competitors in case I didn't want to buy a Saturn. This could have been a mind trick, but I doubt it. He had a complacency that put me at ease. Afterwards, I felt like going into a fetal position. It was a big purchase. I wasn't sure if I had made the right decision. The paperwork hadn't been completed yet and Mike told me to take the car home for the weekend and to call if I had any questions. Driving home, I glanced at the interior and felt as though I had climbed a mountain.

When I went back to officially buy the car, two things happened. First, the other sales people gathered around me and gave the cheer. Second, I had a picture taken with the car and a calendar made with the picture. Never had that type of treatment before. Probably won't happen again.

Mike sent postcards for every holiday and helped me through two more new Saturn car experiences. It was never a question that he would sell me my next car. It was as automatic as setting up an appointment to see the doctor for a yearly exam. I had one issue the entire time I dealt with the dealership and Mike was there. I had a problem with my CD player on my second car. I came in a few times to get it changed out under warranty and there was always an issue with it being the wrong part or not finding the serial number. In frustration, I emailed the dealership and told them this was not the type of service I was used to. Unknown to me, Mike was the one who read the dealership email and I received a call. He asked me to come in and they would get the CD player installed. When I arrived, he found me and apologized for what happened. He gave me his business card and wrote on the back "one free oil change" for my trouble.

When I was involved a rear-end collision two years ago, Mike was the second person I called (insurance company the first) and he gave me advise on the collision place he had used in the past and how to go about getting it fixed. He helped me again when my rear window was vandalized and needed to find a place to have it replaced. I was never a number, never given the runaround. He's always been there when I needed him for the past twelve years.

The last "issue" was when the electronic key on my key ring was malfunctioning. I called Mike and before he began going through an explanation on how to get into it, he suggested I use the spare key. I started laughing -- I never thought of that. When I told him I felt like a moron, he belly-laughed. Then he went into an explanation of opening and replacing the battery inside the electronic key. I never would have guessed that would be placed in the old times, old days -- the old, new normal.

Not to go into personal detail about his life, but he has a lot to ponder. He's not far from retirement and he's unsure as to whether he wants to go back in sales with his time remaining. He said that he can get a job somewhere -- that wasn't the issue. He felt bad for me, a Saturn owner. But Mike said with a smile in his voice that this was a bump in the road that life throws at you sometimes and he'd let all the Saturn owners know if he sets up shop at another dealership.

Saturn is a great car and I'll drive it until I trade it in or it is no longer driveable. I knew Mike and I would part company someday. I had hoped it would be under better circumstances and that I'd have another salesperson who would be my Saturn contact.

Here's hoping that life improves for all of us under the new, new, new, new, new normal.

January 4, 2009 -- Christmas memories and gift auditions

I hope everyone had a good Christmas holiday. If you poll children about what was great about Christmas, they'd probably reply on the gifts they received from Santa. If you poll adults, most would either say they were glad to get time off from work or glad "it was over".

One of my grandmother's favorite memories was the small, live Christmas tree she decorated every year. It had tiny balls covered in blue thread that shredded whenever you moved them. Tinsel and garland that shedded all over the place. I remember metal bells that were faded and on paper-clip type hooks. I apparently loved that tree once particular year. She had stripped it naked and was going to put it outside on the curb for the trash pick-up. When I went outside to play, I brought it back in the house. She thought she could trick me, so when I wasn't around, she took the tree down the street and put it on the curb in front of another house. She never got tired of telling people how she watched me as a little girl clutching onto the main branch of that tree and literally dragging it home from where she left it. In later years we went from a larger live tree to an artificial one until the cats decided the tree was a big jungle gym and dismantled it every chance they got. Putting up a tree was no longer an option. Now I can't bring myself to do it since it's one responsibility I'd prefer not to undertake.

I had three pictures taken with Santa. The first one I ever went through was the typical hysterical screaming, crying, how dare you leave me with this old man dressed in red picture. The next one I was older and looked extremely bored. The last one, and I do mean last, was taken when I was maybe eight or nine. I don't know why I did it, but then why to eight- or nine-year olds do the things they do, but I sat next to Santa and as they took the picture, I crossed my eyes. When my mother saw the picture, she was livid and declared she would never have another picture with me and Santa again. Mission accomplished.

I send cards because we've always sent cards, especially since we receive cards and it's only polite to send them back. Never mind some of those on the list I literally haven't seen in person in decades and wouldn't recognize them if we passed on the street. It's tradition and I think it's the law. I generally send an ecard to those I communicate through email and hardcopy to those either don't communicate via email or whom I've always sent a hardcopy card. It's like jury duty you'll never get out of. I try to send them early as possible because it's one task down and item scratched off the mental things to do list.

As far as presents, I've tried to come up with new crafty things to do. With an eye on the economy, I thought baking cookies would be good to do. The picture above shows peppermint swirl cookies with icing and red sprinkles. I found that making sugar cookie dough and modifying it would be more economical and provide more variety than buying tubs or tubes of pre-made dough. What I learned from that was to dye the portion of dough with the swirl in red using the stand mixer instead of adding the food coloring and mixing by hand. At the end of the process, my hands and counter looked like a CSI investigation. I also made toll-house cookie dough and gingerbread dough. I wrapped them in wax paper, placed that in freezer bags, and kept six tubes of cookie dough in the freezer waiting to be used. Baking off from the freezer was much easier than making dough, refrigerating it, and then baking all at the same time. The dough will last about two months in the freezer (same amount of time if you purchased pre-made dough and froze it). I gave out some at work, brought some as a gift to a friend I had visited, and had some leftover for the cookie jar. Economically, it was cheaper than buying $3 or $5 gifts in abundance to give out at work. It's still an investment if you had to buy all ingredients, but I can use the leftover flour, sugar, chips, etc. None will be wasted.

Normally I make peanut butter fudge -- my grandmother's culinary triumph. Like most cooks from her era, she was always in the kitchen and cooking the same dishes. She knew what she needed to make 50 pounds of candy for the church fair every year and she measured out of her head. She never wrote anything down. When she passed away, I tore through every notebook, cookbook and never found the exact recipe. I vaguely remembered the ingredients from watching her cook as a child. Years ago I found a recipe that had similar ingredients and it's been an annual experiment to see how close I can get to the holy grail of peanut butter fudgedom. This year I made one batch and sent it off. It was too humid to attempt additional batches.

In other years I've made cookie jars with cookie ingredients inside. I wrote the recipe by hand on little cards tied with bows and cover the top of the mason jar with Christmas fabric. Problem with that was mailing them turned out to be a problem if the jars break on transit. Some did the last time I tried it. It was also time consuming with prepping the jars, the fabric, cards, and "building" the layers of ingredients within the jars.

One year I tried to make candy wreaths using metal crochet hoops and string to tie off the candy ends. This was problematic due to the string tying cut into my cuticles and caused them to bleed and the candy was never completely cooperative with staying place. The one year I did it was my last.

I think the recipe CD I created a couple of years ago may make another appearance for Christmas in 2009. Like everything else, it's a work in progress.