My daughter called me last night in near hysteria.  At a reading last night in Seattle someone compared her writing to Tom Robbins.  This is the literary equivalent of being told your penis is cute or that you remind someone of an elf while your fantasy self was picturing Gweneth Paltrow or a naughty dictator.

Cienna makes her living freelance writing in Seattle.  While fiction and creative non-fiction are her preference, she makes the bulk of her money writing ads for the internet.  I don't have any examples handy, but they are similar to these:

"Consider a career in Dental Hygiene; the pay isn't bad and you can always find a hobby that makes you seem more interesting!"

"These playful boots can be warn with anything; casual dresses, jeans, pajamas…they dress up your sleepwear while taking all the pressure off your dog-hair covered clothing. Comfortable and …very comfortable, you'll disregard what your mother says about hideous.  You and these footwear belong together.  They put the "love" back in "slovenly"…  

"Do you love Mother and cats? Forever? All of an animal, or just the head? Could be that you would enjoy taxidermy. Combine your passion with fashion decor.  Legitimize roadkill.  Uncle Arvid's Carcass Academy, located on Old Highway 95, 2 miles from the landfill, Your Town, USA. Class starts TODAY…"

Only her ads are dry and humorless because that is what her online internet content customers want.  It is a soul sucking job for a fiction writer. I couldn't do it because references to Pol Pot and unicorns farting butterflies and harmony would always creep into my serious writing.

I have only read one Tom Robbins book…years ago I read Roadside Attraction.  It was entertaining, but not great.  It was… like eating cake from Albertsons. Great if you are stoned.

"IS MY WRITING WHIMSICAL, MOTHER?" Cienna cried on the other end of the phone.   "WILL HIPPIES AND WOMEN WITH CATS LIKE IT??!!"

I haven't read her recent work. She won't let me yet because she "isn't ready"… Writing is the one thing of which I can be a harsh critic.  This is her first outright work of fiction.  I've enjoyed her creative non-fiction. I wouldn't describe anything she does as fanciful, not since her 4th grade obsession with dolphins … Still….

I didn't raise my children to produce something described as a tour de force on the back of a supermarket paperback.  

"Have you considered a career in taxidermy?" I asked.  "With your love of squirrels and maple planks…"

Sadly, she called during happy hour.  I'm a bad mother.  Hippies never like me.

Gretchen is somewhat of a hag.  She's on the steering committee, though she sticks her long thin nose into everything, sniffing out weakness and vulnerability. Yesterday she yelled at our group for laughing.

"Do you guys not have enough to do? Are things going that well?"

Of course they weren't.  Our server wasn't running and I'd accidentally deleted a significant block of data.  We were taking a break and making fun of Allison, in general, and of Patrick's hillbilly phrases, pure poetry with a twang; the fact that his cousin, Big John, told him that he had to vote for McCain or they'd all be slaves and sharecroppers by Christmas.  

"I said to Big John, 'Dude, your ass don't like your mouth doing its job.'"

Who wouldn't laugh at this guy's homespun yammer?

Gretchen is quite possibly one of the most unattractive people I know and it has nothing to do with her physical appearance, though that is a direct reflection of her cold nasty bitter interior.    She snapped at me one time 2 years ago and I regret now as I regretted then not going snakeshit on her crusty grill.  It will need to be done at some point.

Gretchen is so negative that her Bad Attitude almost requires it's own nametag and seat at the table, although this didn't go over well.  When things are not going smoothly she gets animated; waving her long thin angles around and yelling Blame and Doom. When things are going well, she sits all folded up, hunching, her mouth a gash of disapproval, breakfast crumbs in the corner.  Dark crumbs.  She has one solitary whisker that juts out from her cheek. No matter where she is standing when she talks to you, that whisker is pointing accusingly in your direction.

I overheard her say yesterday that she was going to Disneyland for Thanksgiving.  I swear rather than being happy for her and rethinking my own bad attitude, I pictured the woman standing over Mickey Mouse and Goofy's lifeless bodies, the gun still smoking in her bony hand.

My little group is part of a bigger group, the 'cadre'.  The cadre consists of about 30 people, run by a 'steering committee', numbering 10 or so, of which I am a member, though I consistently forget this and fail to attend conference calls and meetings.  My irresponsibility was punished by me being the sole member to not receive a polo shirt sporting our class name on it and a logo that I thought was Smokey the Bear self-immolating….like dodging the draft or protesting having to wear pants…I have been assured roughly six times, so far, that it isn't any such thing and can I please get off that subject. 
The shirts come in 'watermelon' and 'forest green'.  I don't wear polo shirts, ever, but if Smokey had been taking a hari-kari knife, or a combi-tool to his mid-section I would have been tempted to have one in 'forest green' since that seems more dignified.

Last night I went out for drinks with Allison.  We talked about work, yawn, and quilting, which I can only relate to if I substitute 'quilt' with 'recycle'…then its close, I think, to what my husband does by never throwing anything away.  We have hundreds of colorful plastic dog bisquit containers, large packing boxes, and old jars that could possibly be used, apparently, to hold nails or maybe duct-taped together to make bigger containers…I suppose you could hang some on our walls… He hasn't, thank god, but maybe if he joined a group of like-minded craft enthusiasts…. It's not exactly the same, Allison pointed out, but it did change the subject.  It was the verbal equivalent of me walking into her quilting with my bullshit pressure and getting her to move on to something more lurid and juicy.

Allison hopes to trap her man by Christmas.  She met this guy at our class last February. He was a student, which it isn't the same as Mary Kay LaTourneau having relations with her 12 year old student.  Allison got sick of repeating this.  He is in his 20's, though. And she is in her 30's.  I'll bet he used to watch Fragglerock and Spongebob at a time when she was trying to give up smoking and damning her mustache genes.  Not a popular reflection, I might add.  He lives in North Carolina, she in Oregon.  Her eggs are getting old.   (What eggs? I had to ask, though I knew)  He has mostly blown her off since their time here together, but…has recently suddenly began calling ..and texting…. (LOL OMG SMILEY FACE…WTF?)  Wants to visit.  Her theory: His light is on.  Men are like cabs. No matter who you are, once a man's light goes on, the first woman who gets into that cab, he's going to marry.  Timmy's light is on and she is waving like her ovaries depend upon it.

My money is on Smokey being found dead in the woods by the New Year, probably an overdose, and Allison still being single.

I had a great weekend. Fun time helping out with the Collie Regional Trial (AKC) and hanging out with friends.  Though I had one bad night attempting the JHD with Scout that almost made me think seriously about abandoning my herding pursuits and dressing her and I in matching little outfits instead, performing for school children or something else less humiliating….Dianne fixed all with 2 great training sessions on Saturday and Sunday.  I am constantly amazed at how many ideas Dianne comes up with to soothe our inner spastics.  Yesterday was especially effective.  I shut up completely, as directed, and DIanne had me work with Scout in her indoor arena using only my body pressure. No verbal corrections, no stock wand…This really helped me to concentrate on what I was doing and how Scout reacted to it. By the end of the session on Sunday, my timing finally felt like it was approaching effective and Scout was really responding well; slowing down when I slowed down, stopping if she got too close, and swinging out wider than she ever has.

I'm updating this quickly, because I'm in the Boise Airport waiting for my flight to Tucson or I'd expound more on this weekend.  Later.

This week won't be as brutal as last week because its a working meeting and I'm in charge of my group, which is a little group within a much bigger training cadre. My group consists of 5 people including me:

Patrick aka 'Killer' – a young kid from North Carolina. He grew up on a sheep farm and used to race motorcycles and dream of being a smokejumper. A crash left him wheelchair bound, so he's adjusted his dream to included working with our group and doing what I say while making gentle hillbilly fun of me.  He provides me with some of the best funniest expressions I've ever heard.  One morning after staff party, where much drink was consumed, Patrick wheeled into our meeting room a little late and announced,

"I feel like scattered AAAAAAssssssss today, y'all. If I don't get me some sleep, I ain't gonna be fit ta kill."

Allison – Allison hales from Prineville, Oregon.  She is bossy and bitchy and tattoed and pierced. Incongruously she loves Martha Stewart and craft stores, heavy metal and kicking ass in chainsaw competitions.  Her main goals include always being right and trapping a man.  Allison has a very sharp tongue and is very hilarious if you can get past hating her.  I did.  She's one of the smartest technical people I know.  She's more fun than edible riot gear.  Simultaneous to bitching people out in meetings, while pretending to look at his/her data on her computer screen, Allison is usually actually buying shoes. 

Kim – Kim is our brightest star. She's the only one of us that doesn't in some small or large way frighten people.  She is soft spoken at work, loud and funny afterward; great with people, a natural leader.  She grew up in Tucson and likes to come back for these classes/faculty meetings because she has friends and family here.  Many of whom, sadly, I have managed to offend in one fell swoop, as they say, with my drink induced hilarity one night on our last trip.  I will be doing much kissing ass this trip.

Andrew – While technically from Louisiana, Andrew actually lives, I am convinced, in some sort of parallel universe that is only accessible thru 1950's television.  He is a kind man who speaks only of good things.  He puts a positive spin on EVERYTHING. We've tried to bring Andrew down, but the filter that exists between his world and ours cannot be breeched:

"But Andrew, do you worry about the babies starving in Africa?" 

"I love babies…did ya'll see that one movie with them babies what talked?"

More later….boarding….