Lately our book club has been tending to meet in restaurants that fit in with the themes of the books we're reading. The book selection for April was A Free Man of Color by Barbara Hambly, which is set in New Orleans, so we met to discuss it last night at Baby Kay's Cajun Kitchen.
It was my turn to pick both the book and the venue. I selected A Free Man of Color because it's one of my favorite historical novels (although several of the other members were seriously confused by the profusion of French names and the author's narrative style); I picked Baby Kay's because I saw it reviewed on an episode of Check, Please! Arizona, a PBS show where local foodies talk up their favorite restaurants. In this case all three of the guests who ate there gave it a pretty enthusiastic thumbs up, so I assumed it would be a safe choice.
The Cajun-themed ambiance in the restaurant was casual and friendly, and Wednesday is one of their live music nights, so a seemingly tireless guitar player entertained us with a variety of bluesy numbers. If the evening temperature had been 5 degrees warmer we would have sat out on the attractive covered terrace. Each of us ordered a different entree and everyone raved about the food; I had the half po' boy (oyster) and cup of soup (duck and andouille sausage), both of which tasted like the versions I had in New Orleans itself. For dessert my sister and I split a gigantic hunk of bread pudding with bourbon sauce, which was without a doubt the best bread pudding I've ever eaten. The portion was so large that the two of us together couldn't finish it.
Baby Kay's also serves an interesting variety of beers, including Blackened Voodoo, a favorite I hadn't previously seen in any Valley bar or restaurant. I'll definitely go back to Baby Kay's; I can already see myself out on the terrace a month from now washing down the appetizer sampler with a bottle of that Blackened Voodoo beer.
“Somewhere lives a bad Cajun cook, just as somewhere must live one last ivory-billed woodpecker. For me, I don't expect ever to encounter either one.” ~William Least Heat Moon, ‘Blue Highways’
Friday, April 19, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Photographing the Invisible Cat
When I met my cat Charlie at the Humane Society, he was very friendly and affectionate, which was one of the main reasons I adopted him. He continues to be very loving with me, rubbing his face against mine to wake me in the morning, sitting on my lap in our screened porch in the evenings, and helping me grade papers on the computer whenever I let him (he's discovered some interesting key combinations that I didn't know my laptop possessed). I was startled, then, the first time that someone visited the house after I acquired him and he dove under the bed.
Charlie has continued to go into hiding every time another person enters the house. He prefers his original under-bed cave, but he's also learned how to open the doors of the lower cupboards in the kitchen and the bathroom, so sometimes he'll shoot into one of them. He's been so elusive, in fact, that my mother (who is very defensive about her memory loss) actually accused me of making up the whole "adopting a cat" story to mess with her head.
In self-defense, I took up my cell phone and snapped a few pictures to send to the doubters. Here he is, slightly blurry but clearly visible, Charlie the (to other people) Invisible Cat.
Charlie has continued to go into hiding every time another person enters the house. He prefers his original under-bed cave, but he's also learned how to open the doors of the lower cupboards in the kitchen and the bathroom, so sometimes he'll shoot into one of them. He's been so elusive, in fact, that my mother (who is very defensive about her memory loss) actually accused me of making up the whole "adopting a cat" story to mess with her head.
In self-defense, I took up my cell phone and snapped a few pictures to send to the doubters. Here he is, slightly blurry but clearly visible, Charlie the (to other people) Invisible Cat.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Getting Organized in Spite of Ourselves
I’ve mentioned before that I’m a little compulsive about neatness, particularly where my work spaces are concerned. That wasn’t always the case; I was as messy as the average teenager. Once I became a full-time worker bee, however, I realized that being organized meant being able to find the things I needed to do my job quickly and easily, and ever since I’ve had offices neat enough for co-workers to call me “Felix” – and people dying to hire me for my efficient ways.
One of the main reasons my current boss hired me, in fact, was to help her get organized, and we’ve made great strides together so far. However, I’ve tended to organize things in ways that make sense to me, and her brain frequently doesn’t work the same way. I’m supposed to be evaluating CRM (client relationship management) software now, but I’m afraid of not picking the right long-term solution for her. After all, what good will it do her if I set up everything to suit myself and then leave a year down the road?
That’s why this week I lent her my go-to book on organizing theory, How to be Organized in Spite of Yourself by Sunny Schlenger and Roberta Roasch. I believe I’m on my fourth copy; I keep giving it to friends who hang onto it forever. The authors’ theory is that organization schemes only succeed when they make sense to the user and work with his or her internal organizational preferences.
What does that mean? Well, for example, some people (like me) are happiest when their desks are clean and all their “stuff” is tucked away out of sight. Others, like a memorable former boss of mine, want everything out where they can see it; I often wondered whether she felt protected by the walls of paper she built around the perimeter of her desk. When that particular boss went out on an extended sick leave I had to manage her desk during her absence; it was clean when she returned and covered in its usual stacks of correspondence by the very next morning. I felt pressured by her mountain of paper; she felt naked without it. Obviously the same paper-processing procedures couldn’t work for both of us.
The authors of How to be Organized… first ask the reader to take a number of tests to identify his or her organization style(s). The remainder of the book suggests the best techniques to use by style; the reader can read only the applicable chapters and skip the rest.
Even if my realtor friend won’t read the entire book, I’m asking her to take the tests so I will know just who I’m dealing with, and where our organizational efforts need to go from here.
“Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up.” ~A.A. Milne
One of the main reasons my current boss hired me, in fact, was to help her get organized, and we’ve made great strides together so far. However, I’ve tended to organize things in ways that make sense to me, and her brain frequently doesn’t work the same way. I’m supposed to be evaluating CRM (client relationship management) software now, but I’m afraid of not picking the right long-term solution for her. After all, what good will it do her if I set up everything to suit myself and then leave a year down the road?
That’s why this week I lent her my go-to book on organizing theory, How to be Organized in Spite of Yourself by Sunny Schlenger and Roberta Roasch. I believe I’m on my fourth copy; I keep giving it to friends who hang onto it forever. The authors’ theory is that organization schemes only succeed when they make sense to the user and work with his or her internal organizational preferences.
What does that mean? Well, for example, some people (like me) are happiest when their desks are clean and all their “stuff” is tucked away out of sight. Others, like a memorable former boss of mine, want everything out where they can see it; I often wondered whether she felt protected by the walls of paper she built around the perimeter of her desk. When that particular boss went out on an extended sick leave I had to manage her desk during her absence; it was clean when she returned and covered in its usual stacks of correspondence by the very next morning. I felt pressured by her mountain of paper; she felt naked without it. Obviously the same paper-processing procedures couldn’t work for both of us.
The authors of How to be Organized… first ask the reader to take a number of tests to identify his or her organization style(s). The remainder of the book suggests the best techniques to use by style; the reader can read only the applicable chapters and skip the rest.
Even if my realtor friend won’t read the entire book, I’m asking her to take the tests so I will know just who I’m dealing with, and where our organizational efforts need to go from here.
“Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up.” ~A.A. Milne
Monday, March 11, 2013
Resisting the Rush
In my post about needing to relax in order to sing, I mentioned that I had spent most of my adult life in a constant state of tension. That's because I was an adrenaline junkie.
Many people who say that mean they're attracted to danger and spend their spare time hang-gliding, shark-baiting, or jumping their motorcycles over school buses without wearing a helmet. Not me. My adrenal glands were always at the mercy of my career. Insurance may sound dull to most of you, but I was generally managing a department full of rugged individuals, handling complaints from at least one state's Department of Insurance, trying to calm unhappy agents (did I mention some of them were married to the mob?), traveling under harrowing conditions to work-related public speaking gigs, and trying to balance an impossible budget, all within extremely tight time-frames. For several years I worked 70 hours a week - 9am to 9pm on weekdays, often without a lunch break; at home on Saturday afternoons and evenings; and back to the office on Sunday afternoons. Fortunately in those days I could afford a cleaning person, laundry service, and eating out. Not having children turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At least work was my main bad habit - I didn't have time for substance abuse or power shopping.
Even the years I didn't work 70 hours a week were full. I may have set some kind of record for how long it takes to earn a master's degree. My BA is in English and history, so of course I took no undergraduate business classes when I was in college the first time around. When I decided to earn an MBA I had to go to night school to pick up basic courses in accounting, finance, statistics, economics, IT, etc. before I could even apply to grad school. By the time I moved to New York I had two years of graduate work under my belt, only to learn that the new grad school I was applying to wouldn't accept transfer credits from ANYWHERE. Back to the drawing board, and another five years of night school. With group work sucking up my weekends.
I thought I would finally be able to relax when I retired from insurance, but then came crisis-a-day (or sometimes crisis-every-five-minutes) Barry. When we were together I sometimes felt like a sprinter at the starting line, waiting for the gun. Readiness was all. Coping would be required; the only question was WHEN.
So, for the last two years I have been letting go. I've had occasional minor financial stress and of course the hassle of getting my parents moved, but nothing approaching the constant demands of my previous life. Sometimes I have even been able to kick back and do NOTHING without feeling guilty. Until...
I started working full time for my friend the realtor this winter. She was busier than any two human beings should be, so shifting part of the load to me wasn't as helpful as we'd both hoped. Every Monday morning when I turn on my computer and start reading the emails that piled up over the weekend, I can actually feel my heart rate and my breathing speed up.
In my former life, I would have tried to stay on top of everything by working longer hours. I could easily go back to spending my life on red alert, riding the adrenaline wave until I drop from exhaustion. This time, though, I'm trying to work smarter, not harder. I work late only when it's absolutely necessary. I organize little pockets of chaos so we can find what we need without frantic, time-wasting searches. I'm evaluating Client Relationship Management software so we won't have to consult a gazillion separate spreadsheets to see if we've done everything we need to do for all our clients.
It's not really enough. I need to do more to bleed off the tension at night. I still need to get back into the gym and cut back on my stress eating. The good news, though, is that at least now I relax enough on the weekends so that I DO feel that adrenaline kick-start on Mondays; I'm not living with it 24/7.
Deep breath...thinking OM...
"Reality is the leading cause of stress among those in touch with it." ~Lily Tomlin
Many people who say that mean they're attracted to danger and spend their spare time hang-gliding, shark-baiting, or jumping their motorcycles over school buses without wearing a helmet. Not me. My adrenal glands were always at the mercy of my career. Insurance may sound dull to most of you, but I was generally managing a department full of rugged individuals, handling complaints from at least one state's Department of Insurance, trying to calm unhappy agents (did I mention some of them were married to the mob?), traveling under harrowing conditions to work-related public speaking gigs, and trying to balance an impossible budget, all within extremely tight time-frames. For several years I worked 70 hours a week - 9am to 9pm on weekdays, often without a lunch break; at home on Saturday afternoons and evenings; and back to the office on Sunday afternoons. Fortunately in those days I could afford a cleaning person, laundry service, and eating out. Not having children turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At least work was my main bad habit - I didn't have time for substance abuse or power shopping.
Even the years I didn't work 70 hours a week were full. I may have set some kind of record for how long it takes to earn a master's degree. My BA is in English and history, so of course I took no undergraduate business classes when I was in college the first time around. When I decided to earn an MBA I had to go to night school to pick up basic courses in accounting, finance, statistics, economics, IT, etc. before I could even apply to grad school. By the time I moved to New York I had two years of graduate work under my belt, only to learn that the new grad school I was applying to wouldn't accept transfer credits from ANYWHERE. Back to the drawing board, and another five years of night school. With group work sucking up my weekends.
I thought I would finally be able to relax when I retired from insurance, but then came crisis-a-day (or sometimes crisis-every-five-minutes) Barry. When we were together I sometimes felt like a sprinter at the starting line, waiting for the gun. Readiness was all. Coping would be required; the only question was WHEN.
So, for the last two years I have been letting go. I've had occasional minor financial stress and of course the hassle of getting my parents moved, but nothing approaching the constant demands of my previous life. Sometimes I have even been able to kick back and do NOTHING without feeling guilty. Until...
I started working full time for my friend the realtor this winter. She was busier than any two human beings should be, so shifting part of the load to me wasn't as helpful as we'd both hoped. Every Monday morning when I turn on my computer and start reading the emails that piled up over the weekend, I can actually feel my heart rate and my breathing speed up.
In my former life, I would have tried to stay on top of everything by working longer hours. I could easily go back to spending my life on red alert, riding the adrenaline wave until I drop from exhaustion. This time, though, I'm trying to work smarter, not harder. I work late only when it's absolutely necessary. I organize little pockets of chaos so we can find what we need without frantic, time-wasting searches. I'm evaluating Client Relationship Management software so we won't have to consult a gazillion separate spreadsheets to see if we've done everything we need to do for all our clients.
It's not really enough. I need to do more to bleed off the tension at night. I still need to get back into the gym and cut back on my stress eating. The good news, though, is that at least now I relax enough on the weekends so that I DO feel that adrenaline kick-start on Mondays; I'm not living with it 24/7.
Deep breath...thinking OM...
"Reality is the leading cause of stress among those in touch with it." ~Lily Tomlin
Thursday, March 7, 2013
"What were you thinking, man?"
One of my guilty pleasures is Castle, a TV series about a crime novelist. In one of my favorite episodes, Castle's 70-ish mother Martha sets up a "My Face" page and posts a 30-year-old photo of herself on it. Her high school sweetheart, Chet Palaburn, sees it and sends her a "friend" request, which totally panics her - what happens if he wants to meet and thinks she looks like (in her words) "Dorian Gray in reverse?" She finally accepts his request and flips to his page, only to see a photo there that's even older - possibly dating back to his high school days. Her final words are, "Chet Palaburn. What were you thinking, man?"
Between my pre-Barry online dating experiences and the ones I've had lately, this (or its female equivalent) could well be THE question for members of the electronic lonely hearts clubs. Don't people who post photos from 10 years and 50 pounds ago want potential partners to recognize them when they finally meet in the flesh? One of my male friends showed up for a date with someone allegedly his own age and faded right back out the door again when he saw a woman old enough to be his mother waiting for him.
Old and Photoshopped photos are not the only way in which online daters mislead others. I've met people who lied about their height, hobbies, hair, and religious convictions. Perhaps the worst example of bait-and-switch I ever encountered was the man who claimed to be a non-smoking social drinker but turned out to be a chain-smoking recovering alcoholic. OK, in most of these cases I probably would have refused to meet the guy at all had he been honest - but wouldn't that be better than a personal rejection after the truth comes out? And no, buying me a drink or even dinner isn't going to overcome the fact that in person he strongly reminds me of one of Santa's less attractive elves. It's all I can do to keep from blurting out, "What were you thinking, man?"
I thought (silly me) that we were all looking for the best possible fit with another person. I was initially heartened by the number of men who list honesty as one of the key traits they hope to find in a woman - but some of the very guys who insist on an honest woman see nothing wrong with fudging the facts on their own resumes. WWYT, M?
Maybe it's time to go back to flirting with guys in the produce section of the grocery store.
"For every good reason there is to lie, there is a better reason to tell the truth." ~Bo Bennett
Between my pre-Barry online dating experiences and the ones I've had lately, this (or its female equivalent) could well be THE question for members of the electronic lonely hearts clubs. Don't people who post photos from 10 years and 50 pounds ago want potential partners to recognize them when they finally meet in the flesh? One of my male friends showed up for a date with someone allegedly his own age and faded right back out the door again when he saw a woman old enough to be his mother waiting for him.
Old and Photoshopped photos are not the only way in which online daters mislead others. I've met people who lied about their height, hobbies, hair, and religious convictions. Perhaps the worst example of bait-and-switch I ever encountered was the man who claimed to be a non-smoking social drinker but turned out to be a chain-smoking recovering alcoholic. OK, in most of these cases I probably would have refused to meet the guy at all had he been honest - but wouldn't that be better than a personal rejection after the truth comes out? And no, buying me a drink or even dinner isn't going to overcome the fact that in person he strongly reminds me of one of Santa's less attractive elves. It's all I can do to keep from blurting out, "What were you thinking, man?"
I thought (silly me) that we were all looking for the best possible fit with another person. I was initially heartened by the number of men who list honesty as one of the key traits they hope to find in a woman - but some of the very guys who insist on an honest woman see nothing wrong with fudging the facts on their own resumes. WWYT, M?
Maybe it's time to go back to flirting with guys in the produce section of the grocery store.
"For every good reason there is to lie, there is a better reason to tell the truth." ~Bo Bennett
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