Category: weekending

Now would be a good time…

You would think that after hitting an all time low point yesterday here at my own little blog (*grin*), that now would be a GREAT time to follow on with something witty, wise or profound to redeem my reputation.

Yeah, it *would* be a great idea, but I guess I don’t have it in me today.

See, someone out in the world was really, really mean to me today. So much so that later, away from that person, in the dressing room of a local discount department store I broke down and cried.

Add to this that I’ve had some good successes lately, but don’t feel able to share them and celebrate them with others because it isn’t appropriate.

On Monday I have a second round job interview with a company I *really* want to work for. But I can’t really jump up and down and talk about this because due to this crappy economy, several of my friends and family are without work (for various reason) and having a devil of a time finding a new spot. Me waxing rhapsodic about the potential to work for a well-known company AND get a promotion out of the deal goes over about as well as a cockroach in the ceviche.

So I keep it to myself.

I’ve also just had a small success related to my writing. It’s the first time I’ve had any sort of recognition at all for my creative work (outside of the kind words from friends and family). My work was judged in competition with other people and ranked well. I am beside myself, I’m so pleased.

But I can’t jump for joy because there are people in my life who are having a really, really hard time of it lately (health, finances, marriage troubles, etc), and to express my glee seems rude.

So I keep it to myself.

And while I’m so busy thinking about other’s feelings and being considerate, I’m out in the world minding my own business when this (oh I’d love to drop an insulting adjective here) woman has the audacity to vent her insecurities on me. It hurt deeply. It hurt because her highly vocal prejudice about my physical appearance struck a deep, dark chord within me that I won’t recover from soon…

And so right now, I’m mostly mad. And when the being mad is done, I might have some crying left to do.

Thank goodness it’s the weekend.

Sunday with Frida

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.

Welcome to my hell

From Wednesday’s ABQjournal:

“LOS LUNAS — Thieves ripped off a 300-foot section of copper phone line in Valencia County, knocking out service to more than 500 Qwest customers.

The Valencia County Sheriff’s Department says the line, worth $75,000, was stolen late Monday night.

Qwest workers spent the next day restoring service to the customers.

Deputies say the thieves likely stole the copper to support drug habits.

The wholesale price of copper is about $3 a pound.”
____

You should see what they are getting for stolen fiber. The theft of both copper and fiber has been a pain in the tookus for those of us who work with, near, around, kinda close to, the telecom industry.

Especially if…oh say, you have a c-level executive who wants fast network at his house and you and your IT team move heaven and earth to get the fiber to the properly line..and while waiting for said c-level guy to get a trench dug to his house…the fiber is stolen…all hypothetically, *of course*…

A local assemblywoman has decided she’s going to clear this up by passing a bill to put stern limits on recycling.

Scratch yer head a minute on that one, whydoncha.

Ok, my head hurts. It’s been a long week. Happy Weekending everyone!

Monday, Monday

Can’t trust that day.

Another Monday in the life after a quick yet faboo weekend. It’s always hard to come back to work after a short two days away from work.

Hard to find my groove again.

The oppressive heat isn’t helping with the whole “groove” thang either. It’s hot here. Really, gaggingly hot.

And for my New Mexico readers who say, “Ah c’mon, you are a desert girl. It’s not THAT hot!” may I remind you that…I have NO AIR CONDITIONING.

None.

Zilch.

Zip.

Nada.

The jokesters here in the Bay Area are all like “ooooh, there’s foooog. It’s ‘nature’s air conditioning’ you don’t need anything else.”

To them I sah “bah!”

At least my car has working a/c and my office…well, my office is *too* well air-conditioned. There are icicles hanging off my cubicle walls.

I wear a sweater all day only to come home to a sweat box (I swear, The Good Man, the Feline and I all could go on a Native American spiritual journey in there). That can’t be healthy.

I actually prefer to be hot. But right now my freezing hands are wrapped around a cup of hot tea while I wear a thick sweater.

And I’m *sure* keeping a two story office building at meat locker temperature isn’t wasting energy at ALL!

Can’t we just clack the movie marker and start this one again?

Ready? Action!

Bits of paper

Talked my boss into letting me work from home today so I could avail myself to the Social Security office.

See, being an ol’ fashioned kind of gal, I’m taking my new husband’s name. No, not hyphenated. Just taking his name in place of my given surname.

And that means I gotta talk to the government folks and get their nod.

The place to start is Social Security. Once they make the change, then I can get a new driver’s license. With a new driver’s license, I can make the changes to banking, credit cards, etc.

So let’s go back. It all begins with Social Security. How’d I get a social security number in the first place?

Why, with my birth certificate.

With that, everything else falls into line.

Today, I also took my marriage license to show my new name is valid.

The sum of my identity, who I am to the world, or at least what my name is, how I prove I’m me, comes down to a couple pieces of paper.

One tattered almost forty year old certified birth certificate and one shiny new marriage license.

Paper. Wood pulp. All that I am. Without them, I don’t exist in the eyes of my country. Or the world, for that matter.

Can’t bank. Can’t travel. Can’t get into school. Can’t work. Can’t rent a home. Certainly can’t buy a home. Can’t buy groceries cuz I can’t make money.

Nuttin’

It kind of creeps me out, actually.

Thankfully the SSA lady couldn’t have been nicer. The change was made quickly. In about two business days I can get a new driver’s license. With my license I can change my name at the bank.

I still get to prove I’m me.

Imagine if you couldn’t?

A little mind bending.

Well. Onward, and getting used to signing my new last name. THAT will take some getting used to.

Happy Labor Day weekend to all!