Today I travel to Northern Idaho for a weekend of Old Lady.  My mother is so excited that she made *2* jello salads.  (Brief aside: What twisted soul damaging part of the Great Depression gave birth to the idea of VEGETABLES and MAYONNAISE in a candy like sauce?  It makes my spleen twitch to see celery floating around, suspended as it were, in a milky green sea of sugar and hooves.  Jello is made from hooves, or so I was told once, and given the company it keeps, I believe it.  Throw it all into a FISH SHAPED MOLD and —- SWEET JIGGLY JESUS ON A TOENAIL – HOW DID WE GET HERE?) 

Anyway, Cienna is also driving over with her dogs, Rio and Wyatt, to spend the weekend. That's good because we have *2* jello salads.  I'll spike one of them with Vodka and we'll spend the weekend playing cards and repeating ourselves,
"I SAID, 'No, that is NOT THE PHONE!'"
"NOT THE PHONE! NO! "
"I'm NOT JUDY! I'm KATY (or CIENNA) (or The MAILMAN)"
"NO! PLEASE SIT DOWN! WE ARE NOT RUNNING LOW ON JELLO SALAD!"

The Trix is a fun lady, though.  She's got a wonderful sense of humor and, despite her Judy fixation, a very keen mind, outside of cuisine and driving.  The winters are long on her since she lost her night time license for running into some asshole in a Porsche.   Long story ending with the Elderly Trix standing before a judge and telling him off for keeping her waiting.  Though he found this tirade amusing (she gets away with the most amazing stuff), as did the rest of the court, the judge took her night time driving privileges. He dropped the charge from reckless driving to inattentive and gave her a lecture on the seriousness of the charge and how next time she would lose her license altogether.  The Trix then reminded him that next time if he tells her to be there at 9:00 he'd better not make her aged bones sit on his goddamn hard benches until 10:30.  More laughter. 

"Well, Mrs. Stewart, I hope that you've learned something sitting here today, listening to some of the consequences of disobeying our traffic laws, as well as your own." says the judge, attempting to wrap things up in a benevolent way.

"Your honor, I didn't hear shit. I am as deaf as a post.  I do promise to be more careful with my driving in the future though, and I'm sorry for the accident."

At least she didn't call him Judy.  And truthfully, my mom has been an inattentive driver since the 1930's.  She drives so slowly I'd almost say charge the other driver with inattentive driving, too.  He should have seen her hunched grey-headed form cruising at 15 miles per hour in a perfect arc toward his fancy sports car. 

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the weekend, and then Cienna (and Rio and Wyatt) is driving back with me for the week.  (I'll drive because she drives like my mother.  Like she's hunting sports cars.)  Then I can drive HER crazy in MY natural habitat.   We'll shop and I will appall her with my taste,

"Oh, please god, no, Mother…that isn't a shirt it's a TABLECLOTH for toddlers!"

I'll offer to cook a family meal and she'll assure me that I'm insane,

"A Family Meal is not eaten out of a BAG, Mother…nor is it delivered in a box."

And I'll reach for the jello and whatever is in my vegetable drawer just to shut her up. 

Carolyn is an angry angry woman, in a happy snowman sweater, with a
button nose and corncob pipe, and two eyes made out of hate. She is our
'email administrator' so maybe she reads the emails we all send to
each other about what a hideous hag she is, topped only by complete
incompetence and a bad blonde dye job. Regardless, bitterness and
antipathy are her constant companions. Which makes the fact that she is
plastering our workspace with shiny Christmas baubles incomprehensible.
Why would a woman who never smiles and when forced to return a greeting
chooses, "Yeah, whatever," drape frosty garland and mock gifts brought by
blinking-eyed reindeer over every flat surface?

Isn't there something deranged about piping Joy to the World! over
the PA system while gleefully bragging in the foreground that you've
just had your children's dog put to sleep because he barked too much
and sheds "like a bastard"?

"They only charge $45 at the pound and it's FAST!" she announced,
whipping off her red and green scarf. "I didn't even have to turn off
the car!"

"You could have just left the dog in the garage with the car running
and saved yourself the $45…" mumbled Sheniqua who, like all of us,
thinks Carolyn is Satan in a big red pant's suit.

There are green bell baskets lining the ceiling of the hall. There
are more little Santa figurines than there are people to smash them.

There is so much visual noise that my inner asian child is having regular seizures.

Carolyn just hung up on someone who called to report that her email wasn't working.

"I'm BUSY!" she snapped, stringing lights that also play a tune.

The tune is 'Deck the Halls'

Fa- La-La-La-La…..

Tonight, after everyone else leaves, I will harmonize the decor to better suit our office environment.

I will shop at lunch.

I’ve been fishing around for something to blog about that won’t be repetitious or bore my 3 readers. I mean, Dianne already knows what we did yesterday and how, as does Jodi…why relive it?  UNLESS…through rose colored glasses… a tale of greatness,  a woman, played by Gweneth Paltrow or Vanessa Redgrave (heavy soft focus) and her dog (played by…uh…could we get Halle Berry in a BELIEVABLE furr suit? If not, that bitchy dog from Babe, I guess, but she’ll have to lose about 15 pounds) overcome the odds by getting off their livestock and issuing a correction in near real time.  
See video below of Actual Raw Footage.

On to other things:
Since most of you are from the Boise area, allow me to suggest some upcoming arts related events:

No, You Shut Up – written and performed by Lauren Weedman at the Boise Contemporary Theater.
I saw her one-woman play, ‘Bust’, last year and it was HILARIOUS. 

The Dina Martina Christmas Show – Cannot be adequately described, must be viewed. The FUNNIEST Christmas show EVER.  Sadly, playing only in Seattle.  Well worth the $39 advance purchase Southwest Airline fare. Stay with my daughter in the Pea Patch.

Remind her that I let her ridiculous friend ‘Jill’, the one who spoke in a fake british accent and had her spleen pierced because she thought it was the next cool organ to stick a fob thru, live with us that one summer. The summer when, after returning from Europe with hundreds of dollars worth of cotton fabric, Cienna and Jill planned to sew their fortunes in the form of halter tops made on my dining room table.  What they made was hundreds of dollars worth of scraps and a mess of my new cookware because Jill cooked with the same enthusiasm and techniques employed by the Eight Century Vikings while raping and pillaging their way across Northern Europe.  I still have one of those halter tops and I bring it out when I want to feel sad for medieval times. 
Stay with Cienna on her little couch, in the cutest little cottage ever, and tell her mommy said, “Maketh Thee welcome or thy Mother will don yon Halter top at Christmas and sing!”

I’m going myself 2 weeks from today. 

I am not one of these people who love my job.  I didn't go to college to study it (DROPOUT! Although I *DO* have a Doctorate in Immortality, thanks to the Universal Life Church) and I don't especially enjoying discussing my work unless its on the clock.  After 8 hours of meetings, the last thing I want to do is go drink beer with a big crowd and coo about fractal geometry and fire weather predictive modeling.  We're sitting in one of the most beautiful places on the planet, drinking ….copiously, thank god, and ….these people want to revisit our agenda.  These people haven't had enough of Data Issues.   

Because I am a professional (immortality, but I may have neglected to mention that to THIS group) I like to help guide the conversational flow in a better direction using tools from MY toolkit.  Mostly lies and innuendo.

"They aren't going to fund any of this," I announced, about my 3rd beer.  "They are cutting funding to Your Group.   New policy will be to let it burn. Everywhere. Prescribed Natural Disaster."

"What? That's a load of crap!"

"Can't afford suppression.  Looking at more posters educating people in Stop Drop and Roll…"

I like to cut back on pronouns when I'm drinking and talking. Leverage my sipping time.

"Smokey is getting a WHOLE NEW SUIT, too. Something flashy and metrosexual.  People are tired of that 1950's ranger look.  The new bear will be trim and wear something a little more suited to office work…infact, he'll have 3 or 4 suits…depending on our fire danger rating levels and whether California is burning down whole subdivisions, which would require a more 'We're Sorry, Have a Pencil and/or educational coloring book' look…"

Soon its just me and a few others too polite to move to another table, or too drunk.  That's when I can start talking about something I really enjoy — everyone who isn't at our table.

That was my evening in a nut shell.  I'm ready to come home now. I've exhausted my supply of bullshit and I miss people who will call me on it. 

I'm at the Stanley Hotel, Stephen King's inspiration for his book The Shining.  This is the coolest hotel I've ever stayed in.  Built in 1909, it sits on a hill overlooking the tiny town of Estes Park, surrounded by granite cliffs and hills.  Normally for work travel I get stuck in a Marriot or Whateveryawn Suites, in someplace standard government issue, like Denver or Phoenix.  Estes Park is so beautiful, that I want to wake people up at 12 am and tell them about it, slightly intoxicatedly. (Sorry Eric!) (Thanks for still being online, Jodi!)

The hotel is supposed to be haunted, with the ghost of a former housekeeper, for one.  Legend has it that she puts your clothes away and turns on lights.  Man, if I come back you can bet your sweet asterick it won't be to organize anyone's crap or be helpful.   Shit is going to fly.  Beer will open itself. (Finally!)
 My mother, though…she'll come back vacuuming. She loves it too much to ever give it up.  The Haunted Hoover, drifting eerily from bad 70's shag to 90's berber, crashing into door frames, to and fro, baiting dogs… 

Sigh. Back to my meeting.  I'll try to post pictures, which I take badly, later. 

We give our dogs first and last names in my house.  Mostly me. I don't give them social security numbers or apply for Visa or Mastercards under their names, create myspace pages or match.com profiles…so its not like I'm crazy or anything…its just something that I do.


Hank Baxter (heeler mix)
Jasper Pants (BC mix)
Zeke Finley (Aussie)
Beatrice 'Scout' McGrannahan. (BC)

Somehow this has always just sort of evolved playfully, with the exception of Zeke who bears the last name of his breeder, which fits him in so many ways that its almost a Life Time Network movie.  The part of his breeders would be played by John Goodman, in drag, and Red Buttons, whether he's alive or not, his skeletal remains could be propped up to adequately fill the roll of Mr. Finley.  

(I love both these people, by the way, the Finley's.  They are good farm people with huge hearts of gold, as they say, or gold plate, anyway. They are also, however, Real Characters.  They are not Beloved by all. Mrs. F is very domineering and easy to piss off, hold a grudge, etc.  She's a Chronic Mom.  She wears a snow suit year round and loves to give advice and hates to have it not taken. Mr. F is a sweet old guy whose dogs love him, adore him, but won't listen to him. Not a word.  The dogs' think he's an adorable accessory, like something that came with their collars.  Dog and handler are Thank You'd out of every trial I've ever seen them in, usually within the first 3 minutes.  Mr F. is always loudly proclaiming that the dog is a shitheel and will summarily be shot upon getting home.  Wag wag wag, the dog jumps on him exitedly all the way out.  I truly believe Mr. F's dogs' think that its all in a day's work. Another fine job. Get in, grab hold, get out. Man drives dog home in dog's truck. Napping ensues.)

And Scout. She bears the name McGrannahan after a big lummox on some ridiculous country home video show, Steve McGrannahan, the worlds strongest red neck. His talent is lifting white trash yard clutter, such as old washing machines or riding lawn mowers made from jetskis and old motorcycle parts, in his teeth. Or tooth.   It cracks my son up.  So, one day shortly after we got her,  Carlos pronounced that McGrannahan was to be Scout's last name. 

Eric did not accept this.  He was immediately indignant,
"THAT is NOT her last name," he said, "No way. That doesn't even make sense."

Yes. Because the others do make sense.  Pants and Baxter??? Still, I'm a reasonable wife,

"It's okay, it's just her maiden name," I assured him.

"What?? NO!"  He especially does not like for me to imply that marriage is anything more than between a man or woman and another man or woman or any combination thereof, to include thumbs and some sort of crude tool familiarity. Hey, not me. I'm way more open minded.  Thumbs and toolsets optional! Marry everything off. I want my meat to be grass-fed and free-range and legal under the eyes of Gawd….Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free, indeed!

But I digress…

We argued about this fictional name for days.  A name being assigned arbitrarily to an animal who will NEVER USE OR BE AWARE OF IT'S EXISTANCE.  We had heated debates.  Plural. McGrannahan wasn't connected to us in any meaningful way that Eric could grasp.  Or, It wasn't quite random enough.  Eric is just too logical. 

He mistrusts abstracts. He is not comfortable with anything that crosses the line between the natural world and the fictional, unless it includes a starship. 

You'd think by my spouses reaction that I'd offered to re-write Darwin's Theory to include surnames. 

Scout is a year old today.  She's an odd and complicated dog.  She's small and skinny and her strength is definately in her teeth.  It's a good name.