Karen has some make up work to do.
Karen has been delinquent in her duties.
Karen missed a day of blogging yesterday.
Karen has no good excuse other than she spent all day yesterday off-line, head down, writing performance reviews (they are DONE for another year, YES!).
Karen is terribly sorry.
I will not skip blogging days.
I will not skip blogging days.
I will not skip blogging days.
Only 97 more to go.
Please don’t tell my mom, ok? She’ll be awful mad……
Yesterday at work I had a meeting in a nearby building. I decided to be all eco-friendly and stuff and walk over.
As I toodled along, I was surprised to come across this:
I found it…peculiar.
It’s a nice cement bench with detailed Fish and Wildlife stuff about the “creek” that lay there in view of the bench (behind the, uh, chain link fence).
Here’s an unobstructed view of the “creek” from a small bridge.
(yes, the quotes around “creek” are on purpose)
Folks, where I come from, we call that an arroyo.
And we don’t sit by it and watch the weeds grow. We just don’t.
Is this like the LA river, where, to quote Wikipedia: “For most of its length, it flows through a narrow concrete channel?”
Does something that flows through a concrete channel really qualify as a river (or creek)?
I found it strange, on this walk, to find one random bench with a view of…a weed filled arroyo.
Truth really is stranger than fiction.
Photos by Karen Fayeth and her trusty iPhone
This. This is what is evil:
That there is one each vanilla flavored iced coffee from McDonald’s.
So, you know, I’m really not a McD’s fan. I won’t eat their food. Blech!
But recently SOMEONE, who shall remain nameless (and has the initials TGM) got me hooked on McD’s sweet tea.
Damn, that stuff is good. Addictive too. Crack tea, we call it.
So this morning, in need of a “little something” to get the day started, I rolled through the drive through and decided to try an iced coffee.
I ordered a “large” thinking in Starbuck’s sizes, and was SHOCKED when they handed this bucket of liquid out the window to me. It takes two hands to keep it steady!
So as I drove to work, I began sipping away at this beast.
You can see how much I had. Less than a third of the cup and suddenly the jitters set in.
I’ll admit that I’m more sensitive than most to caffeine, but DAMN.
I had to put this into the fridge at work. If I drank the whole thing they’d have to hospitalize me!
It’s tasty, I’ll give ’em that, but not as addictive as the tea.
Fair enough, I tried the c-c-c-c-c-coffee. It should come with a prescription and a warning label!
: jitter :
Sometimes, the good guys can get ahead. But only sometimes.
Last week, I had occasion to work with someone at my company who I have a lot of respect and admiration for.
Long story short, my friend needed help. He’d gone and done something that is not *quite* in line with all the fun policies and procedures we have, and he knew it.
So he came to me. The Fixer.
And I did. Fix it, that is. I fixed it by taking a rash of sh– from a variety of Director-types. I knew the level and intensity of the sh– I’d receive, and was willing to take it. I pled the case and won.
But that’s really only backstory…
Turns out my friend is classier than I ever gave him credit for (he IS an engineer, afterall), and so Tuesday morning, this arrived on my desk.
Pretty, huh? I think so. I like the vase a LOT.
So upon receipt, I quickly scooped the flowers off my desk and ran to my boss’ office to show her the *gratitude* I’d received from a client team. I got proper ooh’s and ahh’s in return.
I also ran into my Director in the hallway who said, “Oh, are those from The Good Man?”
“Nope!” I replied quickly and explained the gift. She was also *very* impressed.
heh.
But that’s still not the point.
You’ll note in the photo that this arrangement has several large lilies.
I do love lilies.
They smell divine, they really do.
But now, here we get to the point of this rambling blog post.
I recently read a book by a lady named Cathryn Michon. The book was a mostly autobiographical telling of the horrors of her recent love life. It was a mostly throwaway book, but had a few good laughs.
One part, appropo of nothing, she was talking about being in a high level meeting and noticing a flower arrangement. She made a comment along the lines of how flowers are basically natures little oversexed organisms, what with all the throbbing pistols and yearning stamens.
I had a pretty good laugh at that when I read it. Tis true.
This was brought to mind again with these flowers sitting here on my desk.
The part that makes them smell so heavenly is the, ahem, rigid glistening stamen.
I mean, look at this thing!
SCANDALOUS! Right here at *work* even!
I have an austere Russian friend who once I witnessed going into a huge bouquet of Stargazer Lillies and unceremoniously ripping the pollen caked centers out of all of them. I think I actually winced.
Free love for flowers!
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(editors note: yes, I know, any writing instructor would advise students to HAVE A POINT when they write something. Much like fixing my friend’s breach of the rules, I’m willing to take the grief for breaking the rules for good writing. The joys of blogdom…)
The Good Man and I had a chance to be up in San Francisco this weekend. The occasion was a visit to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.
Since June they have had an exhibition of Frida Kahlo‘s art.
I have been a fan of Frida for a while now. Her work so heavily influences any female artist, especially anyone interested in Latino art, and so for me, it was vital I attend this show.
I came in, as we all do, with one set of expectations, that I’m not sure for were met.
But I’ll be thinking about this exhibition for a while.
While at the library the day before we went to the show, I saw a book on the “new fiction” shelf called “Frida’s Bed.” It is one author’s fictional account of Frida’s last thoughts before she died.
So that’s also coloring my view, I suppose.
About the exhibit, however… First and foremost, it was CROWDED. We’re into the waning weeks of the show and I think I’d hoped it wouldn’t be so packed, but I was wrong.
At more than fifty years after her death, Frida is as popular as ever. Moreso, it would seem.
The people were stacked up to see her work, which was both heartening and annoying.
Heartening because many young women were there, and seeing that it’s ok to express your pain, your rage, your upset is important. It doesn’t make you less of a woman. Frida gave good pain, I’ll say that. Sometimes it’s hard to look at her work, it’s emotional and physical pain is so plainly laid OUT there. I admire that, to be honest.
The show was equally annoying because it was damn near impossible to spend any time with the paintings. The queues were insane, and the best you could do was a Chevy Chase “Vacation” style nod at the Grand Canyon, then move on.
This frustrated the heck out of me, because what’s fascinating about Frida’s paintings isn’t what’s apparently obvious, it’s what she’s hidden in the small spaces.
She has secret jokes, or darker images, that she places in her work. Sort of passive aggressive, actually. Both TGM and I had trouble spending the time we needed with each piece, instead shuttled through quickly as the crowd surged behind us.
Many of the paintings were much smaller than I’d imagined them to be. Then again, the famous “Two Fridas” was MUCH larger than I expected, taking up most of one wall.
I took all of it in, thinking I would come out massively inspired to go and paint and release my inner demons. Instead, the story told in all those frames reminded me of a difficult time in my life and a difficult relationship. To say I find parallels between the troubled relationship between Frida and Diego Rivera is to undersell it a bit, but that’s close enough for explanation’s sake, I suppose.
And being far less brave than Frida, I’m unwilling to dissect it here, publicly.
That said, as we came to the end of the exhibit, I ended up in a bit of a dark mood. That was from the remembering. Ultimately, I was also happier and held the hand of TGM a bit tighter. He is a life raft, a parachute, water wings and all other really good metaphors I can’t think of right now for someone who rescued me from the abyss, and gave my life meaning again.
With that in mind, I brought up the question to TGM over lunch…does “art” always have to be sad?
Can I paint a canvas that expresses my joy, the peace in my life now, the exquisite love I have and still be taken seriously as an artist?
I’ve never bought into the fact that misery was a pre-requisite.
Maybe art really is what you say it is…
Anyhow, one way or another, Frida’s work moved me greatly. It will be with me for a long time.
