Here Be Dragons

I know I promised something more positive, but before that can happen, I think some emotional purging is in order. I used to just eat my feelings, but since I'm trying really hard not to do that so much these days, a blog post it is. The following will most likely be an emotional rant AND a whiny rave; you've been warned...

First of all, I freaking hate the move from Daylight Savings Time. For some reason, this year has been so difficult for me to adjust to. I have spent most of the last 10 days in tears for no discernible reason.

I am really struggling with my job right now (in all honesty, that may be where many of the tears are coming from...). I just don't feel like I am doing any good, and no one cares. It isn't a job that's going to change the world, but I would like it to be a job that makes a difference. It isn't. At least, not right now. I'm not making a difference, the quality of my work these days is mediocre at best, and I'm really tired of walking into a place where I feel almost universally disliked. I don't like knowing that I'm talked about behind my back, by adults who are supposedly professionals; I don't like knowing that these same adults are calling me names. I really hate that they -- these "adults" -- won't take any kind of responsibility for their own performance, but rather blame it on me. I don't need to be adored in my workplace, but I at least deserve to be respected.

I am working on losing weight these days. While it has been successful (so far), I swing wildly between being proud of myself, being able to notice the changes and liking them, and feeling utterly unattractive. Sometimes I am so angry at myself for getting to this point, and have to fight to find some perspective (yes, but I'm doing something about it now). In extra bleak moments, I'm convinced that it won't make any difference. People will still see me as the fat girl; I'll still see me as the Fat Girl. Perspective is somewhat more difficult to find in these moments. Intellectually, I know that there is much more to me than my appearance, particularly my weight. Intellectually, I realize that if someone is going to love me, they will love ME as I am. Intellectually, I know that I have a lot to offer. Emotionally, however, none of this matters. Emotionally, I am just a shy fat girl, who hides behind snark and disdain. Emotionally...

I am vastly concerned about my body image. Most of the time, the best I can do for myself is "I'm not ugly." My friends and family tell me I'm pretty. I've even heard the word "gorgeous" a time or two. What is wrong with me that I can't see that? How do I fix this? Am I foolish to hope the weight loss will help? If it is this bad, can I allow myself to be loved?

You know how most people get married in the Spring? I can't dig it. If ever there is a wedding for me, it will be in the Autumn. Naturally, it makes sense (in my head) that I also want to fall in love in Autumn. I think the final months of the year are tailor-made for falling in love. I did once. I fell in love in the Fall. That relationship is long over, and while I don't miss it, or him, I miss that. I genuinely grieve for the time when I felt loved.

Can I just tell you that sometimes the Universe is a big asshole? (I'm totally calling the Universe out right now, and I WILL regret this, but seriously!) I went into the Top Stop the other day, to get a Diet Coke (or 3), and the gent behind the counter was very cute. Very. (I can hear some of you now: "But, he worked in a convenience store." I know, I know. That isn't really the point. And, yes, I know how snobbish that sounds.) He was also kind of flirty. He was very flirty. He complimented me on my sweater. (Yes, I know: that was really a veiled compliment to my boobs, but they did look amazing in that sweater...) I was flattered. I laughed. He laughed. He was married.

I'm trying to write a novel this month, and it isn't going that well. I may not finish. That's two years in a row. I feel like a huge failure. I've been working on this weepy, maudlin blog post for a week. Not a whole lot of perspective here, either. Oh, well. I'll do what I can.

If you've read this far, thanks for attending my pity party. I'm really not fishing for compliments here, nor am I looking for compliments. I just needed to vent. I have. Now, I will find some boot-straps with which to pull myself up by, and continue working on an attitude of gratitude (my goal since October's General Conference).



Oh, Hey, I Have a Blog!

Well, I missed October entirely. Which is too bad, because there were some perfectly lovely days that I should have noted. But, I got busy. Very, very busy.

More recently, I have been having a string of terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad days. Plus, it's dark by 5 pm. And I just.... can't...

I will post something more significant -- more positive -- soon. If only because I need a goal.


A Whiff of Fall in the Air

It was right chilly this morning. The leaves on the trees highest on the mountains are just starting to change colors. The air is more breathable. It's like welcoming home an old friend.


Thus begins September

I can't help thinking how lovely it is that this September started on a Wednesday. It just feels so synchronistic. Of course, this may have something to do with the Personification Synesthesia I enjoy. (And I do enjoy it, make no mistake.) September and Wednesday just feel the same. I won't take it personally if you don't understand that. Or look at me like I'm a little bit crazy.

I came across this little delight earlier:

"A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness." --Robert Frost

Is that not perfect?

I write the first drafts of my poems in pencil. I think it's because I want to make sure I have the "sense of wrong" perfect. And a first draft isn't perfect. But I don't erase. I cross out, and write above, and scribble arrows, and interject. I want to see the journey. When it's right, then I put it in pen.

I contacted an old friend today, and thought of others I'd like to say hello to. Told myself I would say hello. And I will. Soon.

This Wednesday also graced me with the strength to forgive, and a dear friend made me laugh.

Not a bad start to September.


100th Post, In Which the Universe Provides a Gift...

This is officially my 100th post. One hundred should be marked by something, right? A list of some sort? Pictures? Perhaps. But I'm not feeling any of those things at the moment, so I'm going to mark it with this:

I really like dragonflies. They are delicate, lovely little things. In Japan, they represent strength, courage and happiness.

I was beginning my drive home one day last week, and it had not been a good day. It hadn't been a good week. I was exhausted, headache-y, and a little heart sore. I pulled up to the first of the many stoplights I'd have to wait through, and sighed. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a flicker of wings. I looked, and fluttering right outside my window was an absolutely massive dragonfly. It stayed there, outside my window, until I began to drive again; then, it kept pace with me, flew to the front of my car, fluttered there for a moment, and took off just as I made my turn. It helped. I was no less exhausted, and the headache lingered, but I felt decidedly lighter in heart. And I smiled.

Thank you, Universe, for the reminder that we are never alone. That there is One who knows our names, knows our needs, knows us. That we will be provided for, even in dark moments. That we are loved. That I am loved. Thank you for the dragonfly.


Sensing a Memory

There is a certain smell of plastic that reminds me of my childhood toys. Smelling it is pure nostalgia. The first poem I ever memorized was "El Dorado," by Edgar Allen Poe. It was one of my dad's favorites. I was 12, and I can still recite it. Suave hairspray, the cheapest kind in the pink bottles, reminds me of being 13 and in the throes of my first major crush. An unexpected whiff of Crush cologne is like a punch in the gut. I remember where I was when I first read "Labysheedy," and "Digging," and "What lips my lips have kissed..." I have eaten potato cheese soup at my grandma's every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember; it tastes like Christmas now. The first word I remember actually reading, on my own, was "mountain." The first song I ever learned after starting voice lessons was "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." When I hear it now, I am swimming in emotions, if only for a moment: gratitude for my mother for allowing the voice lessons, Mrs. Sullivan for providing them, tenderness for the little girl I was, humility at the gift I was given, and even after all these years, a genuine liking for the song. (These days I'm partial to the version Iz Kamakawiwo'ole sang.) Every so often, the sight of the mountains -- this place I call home -- takes my breath away. I can always tell when someone is smoking a Camel cigarette, and for a second, I desperately miss my old friend Tyler. I remember the first time I found the Big Dipper on my own. Leather reminds me of my dad, since he always smelled like his gun belt, Doublemint gum is my mom. I don't think I have ever borrowed a tissue from her that wasn't redolent with minty sweetness. I will never forget the first time I saw "The Kiss," by Klimt. The first John Denver song I learned all the words to is "Annie's Song;" it is still my favorite one to listen to, and to sing. I still have a copy of the first poem I ever wrote. The smell of wood fire is the smell of home.

There are other, more vague sensual experiences that prompt a memory. Although I can't really define them, I know them when they come. And I'm grateful, even for those that are hard to remember. They remind me of where I've been. Of who I am. And that I'm alive.


Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. *

I have felt vaguely unsettled the last few days; mildly restless. As if I am standing outside a door; the door is locked, and I don't have a key. On the other side is something for me; I don't know what. Something good, perhaps? Something wonderful? Simply something new? I am waiting for the key to come to me. Then I can open the door.

I know learning to trust the universe means learning to trust the timetable the universe uses, and I know that life is a series of doorways; sometimes we are outside, sometimes we are passing through, and sometimes we have found ourselves on the other side of a door. I've been waiting at this door for a while. And on this particular porch, I've found peace. But now, waiting to actually open the door is something else entirely. It's slightly disquieting...

*Quote from Carl Sagan


My Kingdom for a Pensieve*

Oh, friends, there has been too much to blog. Nothing earth-shattering, but all of it new or different, and I have found it terribly difficult to filter it into something coherent. I have some posts in the works -- they almost make sense in my head -- but for now, a quick update (because I tell myself this is relevant...):

My sister and her kids were here in Utah for much of June. Sara is pregnant with a girl and due in November! I love being an auntie.

I joined a choir. It is an all-women Celtic group run by Anne-Marie Hildebrandt. You can check out some of the music here. It has been an adventure so far, and fun to sing again.

Two weeks ago, I was called as the Primary Secretary in my ward. I'm still reeling a bit from this.

I read the first two Hunger Games books, and loved them. Big recommendation.

I jotted some notes for a poem the other day. This is the first time I have done this in months.

There are more things a-swirl in my head right now, but they will have to wait.

*P.S. Extra points for those who get my ultra-nerdy reference!


I Write Like...

So, I saw this neat little tool come through my Google reader this morning, then two of my friends posted their results on their blogs, and then I tried it. Rookie got Jane Austen and Miss Melissa got Margaret Atwood. I keep getting Stephen King... I have not read one single thing by Stephen King. Nothing. (To be fair, I tried a poem and got Oscar Wilde, and a rant and got J.D. Salinger.)

I don't know how I feel about this...


Yay! Friends!

I was able to spend Tuesday night with friends as we were celebrating the imminent arrival of Baby Boy Bryner (Hooray!), and it was absolutely marvelous!

These ladies have seen me through it all, from Joy School to High School Graduation and beyond; I don't have any memories of my teenage years without at least one of them in it. It is amazing to me that we can still meet and laugh and talk like we used to (although the conversations have matured -- somewhat...). In fact, what began Tuesday evening stretched into the wee hours of Wednesday morning, and while I'm still a wee bit tired ('cause I'm an old lady now), I am full of happy nostalgia and recharged.

Jessie, Julie, Jenn, Laura: I love you. I really do. Thank you for liking me in spite of the fact that I talk too much, in spite of my cynical attitude, and in spite of the fact that I sometimes use swears. Thank you for your recent support while I've figured some things out. Thank you for being who you are, for your examples and for your friendship. Thank you. For everything.

I'm still not going on a date with Mr. Jeff...


I have a Confession...

I'm not sure at what point a song becomes an addiction, but I may have one. An addiction, I mean. To "Bad Romance" by Lady GaGa....

I know!

She scares me a little, and the video for "Bad Romance" scares me a lot, and the song is actually not uplifting in any way, and I CAN'T STOP LISTENING TO IT!

(Also, the song "The Word of Your Body" from Spring Awakening. It isn't quite an addiction yet, but it is a strong predilection.)

I'm a big enough person to admit that I may need an intervention.

Don't judge me.


A PSA, Because the More You Know...

Skinny jeans are an abomination. They don't look good on ANYONE.

I saw a girl walking down the street last night, wearing a pair of skinny jeans, and while she was slim, two words: saddle bags. She kept tugging her tiny shirt down, trying to hide her midriff, and I just wanted to roll my window down and yell, "Sweetie! The shirt is the LEAST of your problems right now!"


Texts I Would Have Sent Last Night

Had I been able to find my phone last night, I would have sent the following text messages:

Dear Jeremiah,

I take back nearly everything I ever said about Pink. I heard "Glitter in the Air" in its entirety on the way home, and it was simply lovely. I'm (mostly) very sorry.



And then, later (also to Jeremiah):

OMGaGa! She is coming in March! Tix on sale Saturday, we get paid Friday: Thank you Universe!

He reads my blog, so he'll get them...


Random Mumblings

I can't decide if there is too much going on in my head, or nothing at all. Maybe it's the insomnia... Whatever it is, I'm suffering from blog-block. Seriously: I got nothin'.

I suppose I could mention that some things have worked out, and the little black rain cloud that has been dogging my steps for far too long has dissipated. I feel like the old me, and it's nice to be her again.

I should say that I adore my family and I'm grateful for my friends. Also, that I am grateful for my family and adore my friends. They make me a better girl.

I'm currently a little peeved at the rain. I don't mind the rain itself, but I DO mind that it ruined my hair. I am not generally fussed about my hair, but right now I have a really big, really awkward lump on the right side where it got very wet, and consequently, very poofy.

I'm allergic to my dog, which is sort of inconvenient. I'm going to the doctor on Thursday, and am planning to tell him that if his solution is to get rid of her, he can stuff it.

It was really hard for me just now to spell "inconvenient."

On tap for tonight: Thai food and Glee. In that order. I can't decide which I am more excited about. I also don't care if you are judging me for being excited about either of them.

I really, REALLY need to get more sleep...


Sometimes, Being an Adult Sucks

I imagined leaving work early today. Escaping into the sunshine with a diet coke and a book. Embracing an afternoon sans email, phone and paperwork. It was a visceral longing; I entertained it for a few minutes, then went back to work.


In Supplication...

Dear Sleep,

It has been a long time since we've seen each other. Too long; I feel your loss keenly. I need you in my life. Can we work something out? Will you come back? Please?




The Wisdom of Pooh

For a "Bear of very Little Brain," Winnie the Pooh has some good stuff to say:

*It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?"

*Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh," he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, "I just wanted to be sure of you."

*If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient. It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.

*Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.

*You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count.

*Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

*A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference.

*Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering.

*When late morning rolls around and you're feeling a bit out of sorts, don't worry; you're probably just a little eleven o'clockish.

*Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon.

*"Well," said Pooh, "what I like best -- " and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.

*Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.

*Before beginning a Hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it.

*If you want to make a song more hummy, add a few tiddely poms.

*If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

*If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together there is something you must always remember: you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think, but the most important thing is, even if we are apart, I'll always be with you.

Thank you, A.A. Milne...


Just so you know,

I will mostly be publishing poems for National Poetry Month to this blog: http://www.psychescandle.blogspot.com/

In case you want to check it out.

A Haiku

To fulfill the needs of National Poetry Month, and to reflect the weather today:

Utah weather sucks.
Snow that's sticking in April?
Really Utah? Blah.


The Most EPIC Poetry Thursday. EVER!

That's because this Poetry Thursday falls on the first day of National Poetry Month! It's my favorite, most geeky time of the year! An entire month dedicated to the wonder of words and the magic of language. Hooray!

I like to post a poem every day during National Poetry Month (it doesn't always work out, but I try). Thus, in honor of both NPM 2010 and Poetry Thursday, a poem:

Where The Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

--Shel Silverstein

I think the "sidewalk ends" in a different way and in a different place for everyone, but I hope we are able to find it; even those of us who are no longer children.


Boys in Books are Better

Like other single women who embrace certain literarian (not a word, but should be) persuasions, I have dreamt of certain types of men. (We can admit that; right, ladies?)

We dream of our own Mr. Darcy, whose stern and haughty demeanor we can change, merely by being ourselves. Our own Mr. Knightly, who will help us, kindly and firmly, to be our best selves. Our own Mr. Rochester, who... no, wait... no; I've never gotten that one, sorry... We want a kind and steady Colonel Brandon, who will love us even when we are impetuous and silly. And while crazy and vengeful Heathcliff is not necessarily a dreamboat, there is something mildly appealing about that much passion. I don't think I'm alone in declaring these men Prince Charming 2.0.

Last night, I was reminded why these fictional men are generally so much more appealing.

I was at a Relief Society function, at the church, in the gym. Around 9, the activity was over, women were starting to clear out, and some of us were working on getting the tables cleared and put away, dealing with the leftover food, and trying to get out of there at a reasonable time. Around 9:15, guys began to arrive, adorned in long, shiny shorts, with basketballs in tow. It was "church ball" time, and we were clearly in their way. As they walked in, I was rolling a large, round table across the gym to put it away. They kindly waited until I moved from under the basket to start "warming up" (read: throwing practice shots), but they sure did let me wrestle that table by myself.

A few minutes later, I came trudging back across the gym, this time carrying a long rectangle table. This time, they didn't bother to stop shooting baskets, and they still didn't offer to help. 15 guys stood there, throwing that damn ball around, watching me wrestle yet another table. The only bright spot for me was the conviction that if I got hit in the head with a basketball, I would be perfectly justified in kicking somebody in the balls.

One guy finally detached himself from the Cro Magnon horde and came to help me with the table (it was longer, by a couple feet, than I am tall...). I'm not sure if he was genuinely trying to help, or if I was just in his way.

After that, we continued to clean up, and they continued to "warm up," although by this point, that included turning around every couple minutes to check our progress. They didn't offer any more help, nor did they try to hide their annoyance that we were "taking so long..."

Seriously, guys? Seriously?

Mr. Darcy would've helped.

Maybe I should've just kicked somebody in the balls anyway.



It is probably not a good sign that I have two posts, in as many months, which have the title "Sigh...", is it?



I have no motivation right now. Absolutely zero. It is guilt alone which is prompting me to post this. There is too much going on in my little world, none of it important; none of it far-reaching. I'm just tired and... blah. But, it is, as I have decreed, Poetry Thursday; and as words generally make me feel better, a poem:

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light!

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

I can relate to the candle burning at both ends, but this week, I'm waiting for my "lovely light"...


Thursday Smile

I have seriously neglected my little blog (and several other things, like laundry and sleep), because I was trapped in the serious time-suck that was the Olympics. I think I watched more Olympics during those two weeks than was healthy, but whatever. So, I'm trying to regroup, and I'll have something real to post soon, but in the meantime, because they made me smile:



I recently finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, an epistolary book I recommend to anyone. It is a lovely story, well-written and sweet without being sickly. (Although it is easy to see where the plot is headed, it is equally easy to get lost in the characters.) While I enjoyed it, immensely, it made me miss letters, and the time when letter-writing was the norm.

Lest you think I have become nostalgic for a time I have never experienced, allow me to become an old woman for a moment: I remember the advent of the World Wide Web; when the now ubiquitous -- and expected -- business website was a novelty. I didn't have my own email account until I was 22. When I was in England, my family and I wrote letters -- that was how we communicated, and a large part of the joy for me of writing those letters was trying to determine which news and happenings deserved letter space. When I was in high school, I was not emailing my friends or texting my boyfriend: we were passing notes.

I miss that time. There is such a sense of connection when you read a letter that the other person has touched, when you can see their handwriting. By necessity, email has become a massive part of my work day, because it's faster, I text more than I talk on the phone, for convenience sake, I bank and shop online, and this blog is clearly not a handwritten missive. But I miss letters.

Perhaps it's time to write some.


'Tis a Gift

There is a Shaker song called "Simple Gifts", and the first line is "'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free." I rather like this song, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately. In an effort to pull myself out of this funk, I've been trying to focus on the simple gifts I have in my life, the small things that I can be grateful for, the tender mercies that lighten my day. Here are the simple gifts I've noticed over the last few days:

First of all, my new blog layout. When I realized that even looking at my blog made me feel blah, I decided I needed some color. See that "ribbon" on the side? The lovely blue one? That is my color for the year.

Plus, the scritch and flow of a new pen across my journal, the several new books I have to choose from, the flowers I've been wearing in my hair, the fact that I got 8 free tampons in the last box I bought, the Glee soundtrack -- because it's peppy and makes me smile, the fact that I got to work on the gas I had in my tank this morning, the little boy in Target last week who told his mom that the next song he wanted to sing was "Families Can Be Together Forever", the cute Valentine's gifts that I found for my co-workers, the full moon last week, the fact that I didn't have to wear my sweater when I came out of work this afternoon, semi-flirtatious emails from the cute boy in the corner cubicle, Russell Stover Coconut Cream hearts, and 8 full hours of sleep last night.

And, this: "Stupidity in a woman is unfeminine." --Friedrich Nietzsche

Oh, and I've lost 5 pounds this month.

Simple gifts, but enough. And I'm grateful.



It's been a rough couple of weeks, and I haven't had the heart (or the time) to blog. I have some poems to share, though, and some thoughts. They will have to wait, though, until I've had some sleep, and some quiet, and some more diet Coke.


Happy Thursday

It's another Poetry Thursday, folks, and it's been a doozy! So to counteract the dooziness of it all, something lighthearted and fun.

Thanks to my dear friend, Miss Melissa, for first introducing this poem to me a few years ago.

Crayon Pirate

There was a single blue line of
crayon drawn across every wall
in the house. What does it
mean? I said. A pirate needs
the sight of the sea, he said and then
he pulled his eye patch down and
turned and sailed away.

--Brian Andreas


Poetry Thursday!

In honor of the New Year, I have decided to add a new little feature to this blog o' mine: Poetry Thursdays. (I'm also pondering the idea of "Picture Tuesdays" but we'll see how that goes.) This idea was born out of my love of poetry, and my desire to share it. Thus, the first poem on the first Poetry Thursday is brought to you by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Sonnet 42

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply.
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

In the next life, I am going to find Ms. Millay, and I'm fairly sure that we are going to be BFFs.


Second-Rate Superhero

Superheroes have arch-enemies (think Superman and Lex Luther, Batman and the Joker). The forces of Good are always opposed by the forces of Evil (Frodo vs. Sauron, Harry Potter vs. Lord Voldemort). We who are mere mortals will always have someone we just don't get along with; I prefer to refer to this person as a nemesis (it sounds more significant, right?). I think everyone should have a nemesis; it balances us out.

My current nemesis is a woman at work. We are as polar opposite as two people could possibly be, which wouldn't be a bad thing, except that she simply cannot see my point of view. Ever. I generally know where she is coming from, even if I rarely understand it. The difficulty comes from the fact that I am in a supervisory position, and I am the department trainer, which means I'm usually telling her what to do. It doesn't go over well. She cries, I get frustrated, she "tattles on me" to my boss, I defend myself. We never come to a consensus, or get any actual work done.

This would not be all that problematic -- or different from thousands of other awkward work situations -- if it were not for the added complication that this woman is crazy. Seriously. She suffers under some MAJOR delusions, and has very little actual grip on reality. She may or may not hear voices, I don't know. (I'm serious.) She wonders why I can't "just be nice to her." Her version of nice -- that I never offer feedback, suggestions, or anything that isn't rainbow-tinted rays of sunshine, as I constantly build and uplift and tell her what a marvelous human being she is, all while praising the (mediocre - my word) work that she does -- differs distinctly from my version of nice. Besides, nice has nothing to do with it. I'm just doing my job.

It's exhausting. And yes, I know that Lex Luther and the Joker and Voldemort are crazy, but they are crazy + evil genius. MY nemesis is crazy + tears - genius + delusion - money and/or explosive devices and/or magic. I'll never get my cape at this rate...


This Year, I Will...

I discovered this delightful little website today. It will automatically generate a New Year's Resolution for you. Even though I don't like setting them, and I'm still not going to, I did see a couple that seemed like good ideas...