1/100,000,000

"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative."

Oscar Wilde, Irish Poet (1854-2000)

My periodic perusal of headline-style websites brings new dimension to the habit of Internet surfing. I can go a mile wide and an inch deep through a plethora of trivial and useless information faster that way.

Add my cell phone apps to this mix, and I'm willing to accept the moniker bestowed upon me by the meek and average in the second grade way-back machine: "Walking Set of Encyclopedias." If only they knew me now!

Google Queen.

For metallic leather shoes, the best way to either preserve or restore their luster is with the Tarrago Metallic Shoe Creme line. Bad scuffs can be re-dyed with the dye kit. Need to dye AND polish? Tarrago makes a kit containing both the dye and creme; save $4.00 per color with the combo kit.

I ordered Platinum #506 and High Silver #106.

Those hermetic jar seals on the French line of traditional canning jars (the kind with the clamp lid, not the screw-on lid) don't last forever. Container Store is chronically out-of-stock on replacement jar seals - I don't know the reason. But, beware of imitators! Those orange jar seals sold on Amazon for La Parfait may be counterfeit. Well, they do fit the French line, but they weren't actually made in France.

I haven't decided what to do yet. The measurements are listed in metric, and my jars have lid openings of 4" and 3-1/4" -- when we lived in northern California, these replacements seals were easy to find. I wonder if everyone is having problems finding them; or, if it's just that Denver doesn't have many specialty cooking stores in suburban neighborhoods; or, if things are so bad in California now that they can't find these jar seals either.

I "shoplifted" a bunch of replacement seals on Amazon. You know what I mean. You've probably done it, too. You're on a website, you put stuff in the cart, then you sneak off the web page without paying for it.

Some ingenious e-commerce sites send e-mails saying things like: "Did you forget to finalize your purchase on Crate & Barrel today?"


Busted.


So many of us may be doing it now, they're getting more desperate for closure. Last night, I received an e-mail offering me an additional 20% discount good for 24 hours if I would buy the stuff I left in my cart. It conveniently gave me a link that directed me right back to the exact spot where I fled the building....er, page.


Nice try!


I'm sure it actually works more than it doesn't work. They know it's cheaper to get a customer that was nine toes over the finish line than to drum up a new customer altogether.


Good stuff....


When we traveled with all the Dickersons (from the H. W. Dickerson branch) to Europe in 1985, we stayed at the Hotel Elizabethpark in Bad Gastein at the beginning of the trip. Alright, I know that was a really long time ago. And, according to Wikipedia, the population of Bad Gastein is up to a staggering 5,838 people now. But, does anyone know if they still have those dark green bar soaps in the rooms? I don't think so. I looked at the hotel website photos of the bathrooms, and I only see little bottles of clear liquid stuff on the counters.


Back in the day, I was so taken with these little rectangles that smelled of pine and laurel and verveine and a bunch of other green stuff, I cajoled Mark to walk down the street with me in the dead of Alpen winter into the village to buy six of the full-size bars from the local Apotheke. I eked out those bars for a very long time; in the days prior to the Internet, thinking I would never see them again anyway, I failed to save a wrapper. At least, I think that I didn't save one. In the meantime, we've moved from Alameda to Pleasant Hill to Highlands Ranch.


When someone asks me something I don't know, I say "let's go to the Google." I say it when someone wants to argue about something - anything. I don't believe it's the same thing as being intellectually lazy, since I'm actually seeking answers and intend to commit them to memory. To store them within the trillion cubbies inside my brain and hope that I'll be able to find 'em later, if I ever need 'em again.


I've been to the Google several times about this soap I loved in Austria. I've surfed and surfed. Over the past few years. And, recently. As recently as last night. It's highly possible that this soap doesn't exist anymore. It might have been a garden-variety grocery store type of product. You know, in the same way that Mercedes Benz is considered the middle class workhorse automobile of the common man in Germany.


Since it was a room amenity in a spa hotel located smack in the middle of a relatively tiny spa town in the state of Salzburg, I'm hoping that's not the case. But, I can't remember if it was from Austria or Germany. I think the wrapper was printed entirely in German. I've searched soaps from Austria, Germany, Salzburg, Vienna, Bad Gastein, Bad Hofgastein, soaps generically from Europe. I've scanned the websites of soap distributors all over Europe.


Beyond having no way to know if this soap still exists, I cannot know what type of ownership, name, formula, color, or labelling changes likely occurred over the past 26 years. Drat! I'm a marketer. And, one thing I know more than anything: it's very difficult to get people to stick to what works. New people come onto brands and products and want to embed their fingerprints on stuff that doesn't need to be changed, just for the sake of proving their mettle and fitness for the next level. The hardest thing to do when new to that type of position is to leave well enough alone.


I can only imagine that the object of my search lives in the marketing equivalent of a secure, underground bunker location; where someone in their wisdom has messed with my fantasy. Holding it hostage from my life forever.


That doesn't stop me from wondering if it's hiding in such brands as Argana by Argan Kontor; Alepp Laurel Olive Oil soap from Pegasus Trade; or Body Bar soap by Natalya.


Probably not.


Remember when weatherpeople were never able to predict the weather? Well, I want to assure you that those days are over. The Weather Channel app on my phone directed me to a link that announced that at least 100 million Americans are living in the upcoming "snow stripe" that will develop from Denver across the plains to somewhere in Ohio, to coincide roughly with Groundhog Day.


It must be true, because Facebook friends began posting articles today about the weather forecasts for Monday and Tuesday in their section of the stripe as fact.


I'm not sure the words "fact" and "weather forecast" have ever been used correctly in a sentence. But, since I can't talk about politics or business on WPF (for your protection and for mine), which means I cannot possibly comment on Egypt in any way, I'm left to talk about the inane and the meaningless. The distractions from reality.


I'm just one person. I may not be one in a million. But, according to the Weather Channel, I'm one in 100 million who will have nothing to talk about next week but the weather.


That is, unless someone can tell me who stocks real pie plates?


I mean the kind that used to hold a Marie Callender's pie....


Not the paper or cardboard type used now; and, not the foil pans sold in a package of three at Christmas with a preformed graham cracker crust pressed inside....


The kind that can be used to broil something in the oven....round...not too deep and not too shallow.....


And, not too expensive.....I'm not going to pay $14.50 for a tin pan that I need in quantity, that will likely only see the oven when Mark wants a Hebrew National.....


And, not non-stick, but I'd take that so long as it's dishwasher-safe.....


Would a restaurant supply company be the best source?

An inquiring mind wants to know....

Hope Springs

"Blue Monday, how I hate Blue Monday,
Got to work like a slave all day.
Here come Tuesday; oh, hard Tuesday;
I'm so tired; got no time to play.


"Here come Wednesday, I'm beat to my socks;
My gal calls, got to tell her that I'm out.
'Cause Thursday is a hard-working day,
And Friday I get my pay."


Fats Domino & Fabian, 1957

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

I've learned today that I've been living consecutive months of January since 2005 in complete oblivion and have missed six "Blue Mondays" already. If this past Monday (January 17) was not actually Blue Monday for 2011, and opposing viewpoints are correct that this upcoming Monday (January 24) will be Blue Monday for 2011, I'll see what I've been missing.

All I know about last Monday is that it was Martin Luther King Day, and all the banks, post offices, and government folks had the day off. Nothing "blue" about that, huh?!

Meredith went back to UCCS on Sunday afternoon after a month-long semester break; but, classes didn't start until Tuesday morning because of Martin Luther King Day. She seemed pretty happy about that.

I didn't have the day off because the day is not observed as a holiday in our company; and, I hadn't planned to take the day off on a day when I had so much catching-up to do from the big trek to The Ville anyway. But, I was just so happy to be back in the land of snow plows and mag chloride, I would have missed the point.

So, now I'm wondering if the rest of you were busy being Blue while I was busy being Busy. And, Oblivious.

Blue is my favorite color. I'm not amused that everybody wants to hijack the most beautiful color in God's palette for their own PR purposes.

Yep, that's right. This "Blue Monday" thing apparently got its start when Porter Novelli (a public relations firm with which I have actually worked in another industry) got an idea to create a campaign around a trumped-up depressing day, and concocted a press release that was signed by hoodwinked (and compensated) "scholars" declaring that, roughly, the third Monday of January is officially Blue Monday. At some point after the lead academician had exhausted the news value of Blue Monday, he subsequently solved for the "happiest" day of the year on behalf of an ice cream company. You'll be shocked to learn that this celebration occurs at a point after the Northern Hemisphere tilts back in the general direction of the sun. In other words, June.

I don't know - I'm just telling you what I read on Wikipedia.

My favorite part of the story is the formula by which Blue Monday is calculated. It's roughly the product of (W + D - d) x T to the Q divided by M x N (with a little sub "a"). W is the Weather. D is not defined; d is Debt. T is Time since Christmas, and Q is time since failing our New Years resolutions. M is low motivational levels, and N with the little sub "a" is the feeling of a need to take action.

All of that leads to either January 17 or January 24 in 2011. If it was January 17, I failed to kvetch sufficiently and feel that my opportunity to mourn my condition has been unfairly withheld from me by lack of sufficient news coverage of this landmark date. Yes, journalism is truly dead.

If it's January 24, then I only have the weekend remaining to prepare for this day of gloom.

I see by the Weather Channel app on my personal Blackberry that Monday, January 24, 2011 is scheduled to be one of the 300 days of sunshine we are promised each year by the Denver Chamber of Commerce. If you've ever been to Denver on one of these days, you know that it is absolutely impossible -- I mean, ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE -- to be depressed. The blazing glare of that fireball in the sky known as the Sun fairly sears your retina into believing that God's palette is bathed in a rose-colored layer of happiness. And, barring a genuine tragedy in your life, you have no shot at attaining the appropriate level of unhappiness that I suspect is required to truly leverage the potential of Blue Monday.

Nope. I think Monday, January 24, 2011 is already booked for "Blue Heaven."

South of O'Dark:30

"Airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror."

Al Boliska, 1960's radio personality

Eh bien, that was an interesting week.

I wasn't traveling for business back when WPF was born. Business travel had already long-reached the intolerable stage anyway. So, I didn't intend to write about my trip to the Mother Ship. Or any other 2011 event -- the inevitable travel required by a territory assignment now spanning 16 markets.

But, the trip marked for the week of January 10 is just too irresistible to ignore. I promise that anything I report here will be the truth; the whole truth; and, naturally, nothing but the truth. That means that I won't be able to report on much of anything actually related to the company, the business, my leadership, my colleagues, my corporate counterparts, and the cuisine of Louisville, Kentucky. To do so would certainly hasten my demise; which fate may have been sufficiently determined prior to this post.

No real names may be used. Some of those real names may be listening via one or more social media channels. No real names can be changed, even to protect the innocent or blameless. Analogies, euphemisms, and aliases would be wholly transparent...as a finite number of characters contributed to this epic tale.

I will note one matter of absurdity that is openly acknowledged by all involved at all levels; hence, a safe haven for ridicule. I will permit you to draw your own conclusion(s) as you ponder the title of this event, scheduled in early November for the dead of winter in a minor metropolitan area not equipped with snow removal equipment and any quantity at all of cutting-edge ice and snow melting chemicals. Sand and some salt slung from the back of a dump truck by a dude with a garden shovel? Check.

Yes, set your brain cells for "Stun," and absorb the full flavor of a meeting entitled "Getting Things Done Summit."

That's all I can say.

Well, I will add one more fact: an eight-hour tutorial of "Getting Things Done" requires four full days of "Out of the Office." OK, another key fact: it also requires a facilitator who appears to be the first truly indispensable person on the planet. She must be viewed as such, since she attempted to leave Charlotte, NC by jet for two consecutive days. That Charlotte didn't have sufficient deicer to move all the jets that wanted to get out meant that 24 people in Louisville would not get anything done for four days related to their direct responsibilities. They would also not complete the required "Getting Things Done" seminar, including the one-on-one counseling module. Naturally, I was especially looking forward to that 1:1 tutorial. Mmmm, mmm, mmm.

Let's focus on the obvious.

It's made even more obvious by the fact that I already made it my Facebook status on Tuesday. Some of y'all (that's Louisville for "you all") read that observation and thought I was being sarcastic. Did y'all know that Louisville is considered "The South?"

To wit, all the snow contained inside the dimension of our driveway in Highlands Ranch, Colorado on Monday morning was more snow than fell across Louisville metro for the entire week of January 10. I'm absolutely certain of it. Even if you subtracted the amount of snow removed Monday morning so that my driver could safely throw me and two bags into the back of an Escalade and trudge to DIA, you'd have more.

But, the schools across Kentucky seemed to be closed for at least two days. Indeed, much of the downtown area appeared to be shut down Tuesday and Wednesday. I didn't even wear a coat on Tuesday. I felt more like a stranger in a strange land than I could have possibly imagined.

Since I can't really write about anything, I'll divert to this admission: I am not gobsmacked by much at an airport. I've seen some truly stupid stuff. I've felt threatened by fellow travelers and TSA agents alike. I've been on old, rickety aircraft and brand-new (maiden-voyage "new") equipment. The flight attendants on long-bankrupted airlines aren't as cute as they used to be - in that "real people" kind of way. We seem to have more boys than girls now; the girls wear pants, and the boys wear pants. Depending on the flight, I am sometimes hard-pressed to tell them apart.

It's Monday, 1/10. I'm in DIA Concourse A, Gate 29. Waiting for the flight to Louisville, KY set for 11:24 a.m. Mountain.

No place to sit. Gate 29 is the absolute end of this long concourse which, thankfully, is not as long as the marathon known as "Concourse B." I'm in a chair next to a guy who smells like a hot dog. Raw onions and mustard, no waiting. He can't get comfortable in his seat, so he jumps up and plunks back down about every 30 seconds, juggling his late model Mac in one hand and his bladder-busting "Big Gulp" from the Conoco just inside DIA property in the other hand. I'm looking for a new seat when I hear the Gate 29 announcement: "Ladies & gentlemen on Flight 123 to Louisville, I regret to inform you that the facilities on board this aircraft are not working. Please use the facilities in the terminal prior to boarding. We apologize for this inconvenience."

This announcement is quickly followed by the first boarding announcement. I stand, look back to catch the terrified look on Hot Dog Man's face about the "facilities," and move to the front of the pack. That place where insufferable frequent flyers congregate to commiserate about the latest traveling horror. Well, none of us had encountered this level of a horror - no bathroom privileges on a flight set to take almost three hours. You know, a flight where they expect all of us to (simultaneously) drink drinks, eat snacks, and polish off the microwaved chocolate chip cookies with a big swig of water.

I've never seen a sadder group of folks trudge onto an airline. Since I take all the steps required to get an aisle seat as far forward as possible, I both see and feel long lines of folks from almost every demographic group in the country. The guy slated for the window seat happily appears, holding a Mountain Dew bottle of the size just beneath the two-liter.

I ruin his day with the question: did you hear the announcement in the terminal?

No, he didn't. Not only is he half-way through his Mountain Dew, he erupts with too much personal information regarding how he has unwittingly guzzled six iced teas in the restaurant with a colleague. He thinks he isn't likely to make it until we're airborne and at the altitude required to unbuckle a seat belt.

I smile. Uncharacteristically, I have not swallowed a drop of liquid in the prior three hours, at the risk of dehydration. Now, I will pass the supreme test of sitting politely in my seat with the extra legroom, all the way to Louisville and into the terminal restroom there.

But, God is merciful. Although a computer glitch had figuratively shut down the hopes and dreams of men, women, and children (did I forget to note that many, many children tend to be aboard planes on Mondays at midday?), what is called "The Miracle at 16,000 Feet" unfolds before our very eyes and bladders. Prayers are answered.

Green lights for miles - forward and aft.

And, that was just the first day...

Cheesecake Hill, 80126

"Piper Jaffray is adjusting its rating on shares of the Cheesecake Factory (NASDAQ: CAKE) to Neutral. It credits the company with being one of the industry's best-in-class operators and believes the company is in a much stronger position going into 2011.

"With no debt, a new revolver, and 6-9 new units expected for FY11, Piper is incrementally encouraged by the company's improved position. That said, it believes the bias towards the limited service and fine dining segments and their favorable strategic/demographic exposure vs. casual dining ultimately wins out....

"Piper raises CAKE's PT from $25 to $30."

It didn't hit me until about an hour ago. I'm supposed to write something today. Although I don't have time to write a daily post, my brain has almost frothed with potential subject matter this week. I know - major excitement, huh?!

I've nearly created all manner of fantastic, potential topics for today. Emphasis on the word "nearly." As expected, the week went its way through a treacherous to-do list and prep for a week of travel to company headquarters next week. Louisville, Kentucky - 40202. The Pink Palace. The Tower.

I always used to work at someone's headquarters. "Corporate." Since we moved to Colorado in 2002, I've been in "The Field." When "The Field" goes to "Corporate" in this instance, the preparatory instructions duly note that the dress code is different "there." We're advised that some of us may work in "Business Casual" environments. You know who you are. (Well, do you? I submit that some folks might not know.) You're coming to a Fortune 73 company, so you'd better act like it. I mean, dress like it. Dress in "Business Formal."

What in the world is "Business Formal?" My two-day orientation at "Corporate" at the beginning of my tenure in 2009 was filled with images of women in too-long skirts. Some of them teetered on heels so high, I could not even create a space between my thumb and forefinger to measure the distance. One of them hobbled to the ladies' room for a Noon teeth brushing appointment, and I thought she would soon be headed to the ER for a broken ankle instead.

What's formal about that?!

So, this matter is of some concern. Modest concern; but, concern, nonetheless. I won't be taking any seven-inch heels with me. You can all exhale now.

Of course, I have no intention of revealing my Business Formal packing list. Let's just say that it's heavy on black, leather, and metal objects. Sounds more like Business Torture, doesn't it?! (Yuck, yuck.) I promise, I'm leaving my whip at home.

No, the real topic for today's musing has nothing to do with clothing choices and everything to do with the health care industry. It necessarily flies directly in the face of recent government hand-wringing about dessert and the role dessert -- dare I add - chocolate dessert -- plays in our obesity epidemic and rising healthcare costs.

I could be in serious trouble for revealing to you that the best thing I made in 2010 was.................Triple Chocolate Cheesecake.

This confession likely marks the beginning of another potential tradition - you are probably already setting your watch and noting on your 2012 calendars that you can expect a post about "The Best Thing I Made in 2011" on the second Saturday of next year. Quite right. I could begin to schedule certain topics now, given my penchant for forward planning. It would eliminate all that messiness about searching for a subject, trying to be witty about it extemporaneously (I could be funny upfront), and set everyone's teeth on fire in anticipation.

I didn't start out to make this dessert for Thanksgiving - it was foisted upon me by a daughter who decided in 2010 (or sometime earlier when I wasn't paying attention) that she now likes cheesecake. From the Cheesecake Factory. Six or seven dollars a slice, I think. Sometimes, I open the refrigerator for morning orange juice and find about $3.72 worth in a doggy box. Before I jolt to reality, I sometimes ask myself if I'm supposed to eat it. No, it wasn't put there for me.

But, when queried about the dessert wish list (not with the intent to buck tradition, but to entertain new possibilities), I was not prepared for chocolate cheesecake.

Not because I don't know how to make it. I've made it with all manner of chocolate - bittersweet, semisweet, milk, "dark," (this label has created undue confusion in the world of cocoa bean labeling), "white" (all of you already know, there is no such thing as "white" chocolate, right?), and Godiva chocolate liqueur, etc., etc.

Along with pie crust and yeast bread, I had more than conquered cheesecake at sea level a couple of decades ago. Living at about 6200 feet above sea level now creates new horrors of baking that have yet to be chronicled on WFP, simply because I'm not sure the audience needs to hear about failure. I'm all about success.

So, although the internet likely harbors a trillion chocolate cheesecake recipes, I went to an old-fashioned paper file folder stuffed with recipes that have been triaged from magazines (yes, the kind you hold in your hands) over the years; but, not yet used.

Enter "Chocolate Bliss Cheesecake." Kraft Foods will be delighted to know that I still have this recipe, published in a full-page ad from a 2001 issue of Martha Stewart Living. You know this thing is old when you flip over the page and see an entry in a program guide for a Martha series that hasn't been on the air since, well, just after 2001. An entry entitled "Cooking with Rocco Dispirito" further ages the ad. And, frankly, probably should have rendered it useless. :) (I confess that I count one of his cookbooks among my collection. Mostly for the pictures :)

But, baking at altitude requires more than an adjustment of ingredients, ratios, baking times, baking equipment...truthfully, it's a long list. It demands a different way of thinking and a managing of expectations the likes of which I never thought I could absorb.

I now look for fewer ingredients. Fewer things to go wrong or be out of proportion.

I look for a smaller yield. Less cheesecake to throw down the garbage disposal, in the event of an aborted landing.

I look for less investment of time. Less time wasted on something headed for the garbage disposal equals more time for tasks that are not altitude-sensitive. Like laundry.

Yes, this recipe yields a nine-inch cheesecake, which seems like a lot. But, if you only make it when you have people around you to help eat it, you'll see it cuts down to size nicely.

Cheesecake also freezes well. We still have five slices of this one downstairs today. It won't stay there much longer, but we did have seven slices the day before Christmas. You get the idea...

One dastardly dilemma with cheesecake at altitude remains.

Crack. And, I do mean CRACK. (Not the drug. Duh!)

At sea level, we all demurely and slowly removed our cheesecake from the low-heat oven, resting it firmly on the countertop. We then used the thin, straight knife already waiting to take a twirl or two around the rim. This nifty technique dislodged the cake from the side of the springform pan before the thing even had time to realize it was out of the oven.

Nothing doing at altitude.

The very millisecond that cake comes out of the oven and hits the cooler air, along with the change in air pressure, it begins to tug and snatch itself with great velocity from the rim. It looks like the bottom of a dry desert bed before you've even traversed the 26 inches from the oven door to the counter.

Ah, you cheesecake bakers say. But, after it cools and you store it in the refrigerator for the requisite time, those cracks close up again. All is well.

I guess you don't understand what I'm trying to tell you. These cracks are deep, wide, and vast.

The only prescription is cosmetic surgery. Filler. I don't know, but I'm guessing that it's the culinary interpretation of collagen injections.

Otherwise known as Ganache.

I think the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services is coming up my driveway about now. But, yes, you're getting the recipe/technique for that, too.

I'm not sure how it happens. But a warm pool of ganache, carefully poured on the cooled cheesecake (before the whole thing goes into the refrigerator) closes the gashes and makes your Baker's One Bowl Recipe into a thing of presentation perfection. When sliced, no evidence or history of cracks is visible; even to those of us who are paying attention.

A thing of beauty. A tri-level, pure chocolate creation. Restaurant quality. Yes, even when compared to the one traded on NASDAQ.

The best thing I made in 2010.

Chocolate Bliss Cheesecake

Prep: 30 minutes plus refrigerating

Bake: 1 Hour

18 Oreo Chocolate Sandwich Cookies, finely crushed (1-1/2 cups)

2 Tbsp. butter, melted

3 pkg. (8 oz. each) Philadelphia Cream Cheese, softened

3/4 cup sugar

1 tsp. vanilla (2 tsp. at altitude - you know who you are)

3 eggs

1 pkg. (8 squares) Baker's Semi-Sweet Baking Chocolate, melted; cooled slightly

Heat oven to 325 F. Mix crushed cookies and butter; press onto bottom of 9-inch springform pan. Bake 10 minutes.

Mix cream cheese, sugar and vanilla with electric mixer on medium speed until well blended. Add eggs (one at a time at altitude), mixing on low speed just until blended. Blend in melted chocolate. Pour over crust.

Bake 55 to 60 minutes or until center is almost set. Run knife or metal spatula around rim of pan to loosen cake (HA! Do it at altitude anyway); cool before removing rim of pan.

Refrigerate four hours or overnight. Makes 12 servings.

Altitude Crack Repair Ganache

3/4 cup heavy whipping cream

6 oz. dark chocolate (bittersweet), chopped

1 Tbsp. sugar

Stir cream, 6 ounces chocolate and sugar in heavy medium saucepan over low heat until smooth. Cool slightly. Pour over center of cheesecake, spreading to within 1/2 inch of edge and filling any cracks (HA!). Chill until topping is set, about one hour. (Well, ignore the one hour. The whole thing is best when chilled overnight.)

Unknown Unknowns

"Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved."

William Jennings Bryan, American lawyer and politician (1860-1925)

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane In proving foresight may be vain; The best laid schemes 'o mice an men, Gang aft a-gley ; An lea'e us nought but grief an' pain; For promised joy."

Robert Burns, poem "To a Mouse," 1786.

Welcome back to When Pigs Fly! Hiatus lasted longer than I expected, but I should have known that joining the health care industry in March, 2009 would be something of a distraction. Understatement. I thought it would be so cool to be part of the "debate" at that time; however, watching my company's name and industry endure daily vilification within the national press, above the fold, soon lost its intrigue. No aspects of the matter will be examined, reviewed, dissected or otherwise construed here. It's not the right place, I'm not the right person.

Besides, the original charter of WPF was to give CRD a place to write something besides a business plan, new product proposition, or research analysis. For the brain exercise. The same reason my father still does crossword puzzles every day.

I note that only two posts were entered since I began this adventure with Humana. It would seem I didn't have the time (true), didn't have the inclination (true), and didn't have anything to say (maybe).

Like everything in my life, I had to make a choice about where to spend my time and talent. To opt for the laundry on Saturday instead of the blog. To sleep during the week after closing the laptop regularly at midnight instead of rising to fire the brain cells. To recognize that the continual firing of said brain cells on the job was sufficient mind massaging for anyone, including me, and acknowledging that no one was really out there waiting for word from me.

But, with a quirky combination of bang and whimper, 2010 has ended. It jolted me back to the idea that I could do something more abbreviated. That I could have the cake and eat it, too. That a compromise - perhaps a lowering of my own expectations is too harsh - could permit me to peacefully commingle my life with a blog thingy.

2010 was a year I had long anticipated. The planned lifestage events on the calendar came and went: Shannon graduated from the University of Nebraska - Lincoln on May 8, and Meredith graduated from Mountain Vista High School on May 20.

The unplanned events require much more than a paragraph - everything from "surviving" the first restructuring at Humana in response to "health care reform" that ultimately quadrupled my geographical assignment; to watching my 83-year-old father enter the hospital as a patient for the first time in his life. And, fight for that life. Through the Grace and Mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, he lived to tell that tale. And, not surprisingly, everyone is listening.

We begin each year that way. We have some things to do. We already know about them: birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, new jobs, new school terms. Sometimes we anticipate the birth of new life to our families, friends, and co-workers. Stuff like that.

We prepare. We have certainty. Our daily life choices - and the attendant consequences - are somewhat ordered about the expectation that these things will happen. According to the calendar. According to the plan.

But, what about the unplanned? The unseen? The unforeseen?

If we're honest, we have more of that each year than anything. The "what was I thinking" moments. The "how could I have been so stupid" thunderclaps. The "why do I keep doing that" whiplash. The "I am such a ditz" self-loathing.

We don't see everything coming. I have long contended that God doesn't let us see the future. As a whole, it would scare us into apoplexy; rivet us into stupor; cement our decision-making to the floor.

We weren't made to carry that burden.

What we are made to do is live each day by faith, taking everything as it comes. One thing after the other. Day, after day, after day.

Maybe I yet have nothing well-formed to say. The first day of a new year can do that to you. The day can feel heavy, mixed with an odd concoction of anticipation and fear. Fear about what those unplanned, unseen things in 2011 will be and whether everyone we love will come out on the other side.

I'm beginning the first day of the new year in Pasadena, California again. The only difference over time is that we finally wised-up and watch it on HGTV, without commercial interruption. The television does it no justice whatsoever. Having seen it live for so many years, I am both exceedingly spoiled and a parade snob. This regularity - honoring this tradition - is one of the ways I cope with uncertainty. Even that day a few years ago when the rain poured down on Pasadena like Armageddon and washed all the poppy seeds off the USC float and destroyed the hair AND make-up of the Song Girls wasn't enough to cancel the thing.

So, I count on the XXth Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade to confirm that the calendar page turned again. Rain or shine. Mostly, shine. But, also rain. Buckets of rain, rivers of rain.

Oh, no. The Sierra Madre float broke down before the official parade starting line. Already being towed. I suppose all of you non-Californians are wondering how all those tow trucks just come out of nowhere when stuff breaks. Well, I'm not going to tell you. For the sake of the traditions, some things just should not be discussed....

But, that won't prevent me from making a few catty remarks. (Meow.)

We lived in Sierra Madre, but went to Arcadia High School. Seems like Arcadia has had a Princess on the Queen's float every year for three decades. I could be wrong. This year was no exception. Even with the programmed "diversity" of the court (sorry - that part is true), they still mostly look alike on parade day. Hair, make-up, crowns, matching dresses and creepy waves can do that. Sanitized and homogenized for our protection.

LOVED the teal dresses today. Probably my all-time favorite color. Probably because all us Dickersons look fabu in it. Something about that eastern European coloring of everyone except me; but, I have blue eyes, too - so, it works. LOVE teal. The perfect blend of God's two most perfect colors in nature - green and blue - an inspired hue.

But, these people standing on horses must go. I don't mean that in the "you go, girl" sense. I mean exit. Next left-hand turn off of Colorado Boulevard.

I mark the dates, mark the time. Honor the high days and holidays to the best of my ability. Never let my husband forget that he didn't have a stocking when we were first married by stringing an outrageous collection of them through the entire house. Remind my girls that the days they were born are only elipsed in my joy by the day I married their father.

Make the turkey stock at Thanksgiving. Plug in all the Christmas lights every night until New Years (and a few nights beyond, if necessary).

(Shout-out to Bruce Erley, colleague from Denver, and Up With People alum; who produced the parade opening segment today. Bruce, I want you to know that I actually set the alarm for 8:45 a.m. Mountain after too-little sleep, just to see Matt on top of the singer float. I owe you a phone call about the Denver Parade of Lights post-event analysis, Nielsen ratings, and demographic viewership results.)

Oops. No business stuff on When Pigs Fly.

Anyway, I don't know what I can do in weekly installments. But, I don't think I'm ready to commit to more than a weekly post, for whatever it might be worth to anyone. I'm not a paid professional, I'm not trying to change political opinions, and gifted Biblical scholars are already doing what I don't have a calling to do.

However, it seems that an often-overused verse would be in order here. On 1-1-11.

Naturally, Jeremith 29:11. "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Since I don't know, I'm grateful that He knows. I will continue to try to make the best possible daily choices so that I am fit for whatever He knows.