Tuesday, December 20, 2011


Crap is going down at work and I am not sure if I'll have this same job next week.  It's that ridiculous.  My position at the clinic may be vastly changing, changing so much that it's not at all the same position.  More hours, more work, same pay, plus working weekends and late shifts.  Which is NOT what I was hired for, nor is it what I've been doing the last year.

I'm feeling angry, and bitter, and lost.  I've had lots of wishy washy answers and I'm not sure what to make of it.

So I'm trying to ignore it.  That's the plan.  Better than fretting about it endlessly, I suppose.  My favorite option:  quit, write my novel, get published, because a best-selling author.  Have I mentioned that I'm going to write a novel this year?  Yeah, it's my New Years Resolution.

Oh, and get pregnant.  That's a resolution as well.  Sort of a big one.

So I'm in a pissy mood but it appears that listening to lots of eighties music and painting my names dark grey with silver glitter seems to help.  That, plus lots of tea.  And even more clementine oranges.  I've had six today.

That's a lie.  It was 7.  Possibly 8, I'm not entirely sure.  A lot.  A lot of oranges.

So that's where I am right now.  Bitter, frustrated, and planning on becoming a brilliant author so I don't have to deal with this 9-5 rubbish anymore.  I'm sure I'll succeed.

Guess I'll always have my self-assurance, right?


Snow. Snow. Snow.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Portlandia Meets Battlestar Galactica

Welp. I've just been convinced to watch BSG for the fourth time. Annnnd episode 1 (can I skip the mini-series?)

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Snow. Snow. Snow.

Snow. Snow. Snow.

Winter has made me fall in love with Jackson all over again.
Snow snow snow snow snow!
I will be posting some lovely winter scenes this week to remind us how pretty winter can be.


Today at church Father Ken's newsletter included a really cool poem based on this fresco painted by Fra Angelico in the San Marco covenant in Florence.

The poem is apparently pretty obscure, and Father Ken couldn't find an author, but there was something about it that I really enjoyed, so I thought I'd share it.


In the ivory colored cloister
acanthus crowns the smooth columns.
Dark arches repeat the ceiling pattern,
the entry shows a small paned window.

Nearby a brown sentry of fence
has not kept out the awesome guest.

He kneels, flush-faced, brimming with purpose;
gold weaves a banner across his chest,
wings tiered amber, jade, carnelian.

She looks past him, her hands protective,
folded across her solar plexus.
In this painting she is not coy
or modest or turned away.

Her face is stark, almost aghast,
and we see soul fight for size.

More is asked than she has got.
It is the moment of summoning up
the language of another future.

We balk and most of us say no;
do not remember being asked.

But he painted and we look
because she saw - beyond the angel -
incipient death, despite the peace
of bell-shaped blossom, greening wood.

She would embrace it all and, yes,
she sent him flying with the news.