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Last time I tried to blog here, my computer kept freezing, and after three tries, I gave it up. That was when Poet/Punk Rocker Jim Carroll died, one of my punk poet idols. Instead, I posted as Chirichica on my Postmodern Prometheus blogspot. I felt compelled to respond, to say something about Jim's passing. I Twittered comments, and blogged as my alter ego. I was sad, so very sad, that Jim Carroll died. But he lived hard for a time, and I suppose it caught up with him at sixty. I was disappointed that I couldn't blog about him here too, but the Cosmos, it seems, were against it. Here, I blog as myself, even if I don't use my real name, but blog as "unachicana", that is, una chicana, an anonymous chicana: Chicana aka indigenous Mexican (Mex/Apache), aka Mexican-American, and those other aka's I don't particulary care for, like "Hispanic" and "Latina". But, that's another subject.
Have been busier lately than have been in years. I'm taking these real estate courses so I can get licensed. Initially, I was pursuing a salesperson license, but am now pursuing broker license. Since I have a four-year degree, here in California it qualifies me to take the broker exam after completing and passing eight particular real estate courses.
I used to have a supervisor, a gal younger than I was, some twenty years ago (damn, it's been that long?!), and she planned her life out. She had a toddler, a little girl, and planned to have her second child in two years. She wanted to two children, no more, no less. She wanted a boy next, but there wasn't much she could do to control that, though I'm sure those control-freak mad scientists are working to make that a reality. At any rate, my supervisor, let's caller Susie, had to leave the gender choice of her next child to the Cosmos, to the Universe, to God, to the Creator, to chance. I was amazed that she lived like that. She planned how her life was going to go without regard for the possibility that something unexpected might present itself. She had planned I would be there for two years, which I had initially thought might be the case. She about peed her pants when I gave my two weeks notice a year later, because I upset her plans. Her cheeks flushed, and horror then anger crossed her face. "You said you'd be here two years," Susie said, rather emphatically. "I know, but I've decided I want to go to grad school," I told her, "and I can't work full-time. I can only work part-time." If she had changed my position to a part-time, I would've stayed, but she didn't do that. She could have, since there wasn't really that much to do. I finally had to beg for more to do. She told me to water the f'ng plants on the back deck behind our office. That hadn't been in the job description. I didn't water the f'ng plants, unless she specifically sent me to do it. I'm sure my feelings about it showed on my face. She only asked me to do it once. After that, I'd see her go out there and do it. She finally gave me much more form-filling paper work than anyone could possibly handle. This was after I had turned in my two-weeks notice. I hustled to get it all done, without complaining, even though I knew the office manager, her supervisor, was being vindictive, because she was also put off that I was leaving. She'd wanted to make my life miserable for at least two years. Oh, by the way, that form-filling was on a typewriter, not on the computer. Makes a difference.
I needed a job, and that is why I took that particular job. I was relieved they hired me. Relieved, NOT happy. I had just graduated, had my four-year degree, which took me eight years to get, after getting divorced. I also had three children to raise. I was thirty-eight. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, and I figured in the next two years, while I worked here, something would come to me. But three weeks later, I did not want to be there. I didn't like the way I was treated. I started working in Dec, and at the end of Dec, there was no one there for two weeks, except the office manager, her