Next week I'm in Portland for a meeting. A meeting for which I am chair.  Don't ask me how that happened. I have the social skills of a crustacean.  I'm being Co-chaired pretty tightly though, by an avid little man who hates being A Number 2 almost as much as he hates my calling him that. Constantly. My Number 2.  Insert leer.

This all served to make our pre-meeting call DELIGHTFUL. You could hear his sphinter snapping shut when I described my proposed agenda: Introductions, Break, Presentation, Break, Lunch…. Group Breakout…He made me put that one in there. I wanted it to be Early Wrap-Up. 
But no, I conceded. I gave him his Group Break Outs in which to "write our work and communication plans".

Ta-da! Mine are written!

"You can't have your own," he snarls. "Since we only meet twice a year, it's important that we finish our GROUP …"

"I'm big on quality alone time…" I interrupt him.  He's gone beyond the 10 word limit I normally allow him for whining.

"FOR A MEETING?" Sean gasps, "What do you mean, 'Alone time?'"

"You said you like smaller breakout groups for 'getting things done', my Number 2 " I remind him.

I was imagining myself already on a plane back home right after we did our Group Introductions….they could have their 'breakout groups' …. and I'd have mine.  Breakout. It's a semantics thing.

"Alone time is not the purpose of a Group…"he huffs.  He the sort of guy who likes to walk around the room with his hands in his freshly pressed pockets, twiddling things while waxing mind numbingly long on data platitudes and VISIONEERING, which I pronounce VAGINEERING; the first time accidentally, the last 29 might have been less so. Either way, it makes his jaw quiver and his little fists emerge from his pockets all sweaty… curling up on themselves. He has the pinkest hands….Like little shrimps.  Sometimes watching him react to my Chairmanship makes me hungry.  I usually try to call Lunch at around 10:00.  I've put it on the agenda.

He is prepared for this,

"We're going to have sandwiches delivered," he tells me, "So we can work through lunch…."

"Yeah?"I yawn. "Cuz I'm the chair, and I think we'll need the break, with these large groups and all…You are A Number 2. You are responsible for …oh..let me look in my book…" 

Another snapping noise.  I've lied to him and told him there is a book that specifically delineates our Roles and Responsibilities. He knows or at least deeply suspects that this is a HUGE FAT FLY ENCRUSTED LIE. But he always listens…

"Yup. Here it is, 'A Number Two is responsible for providing snacks and coffee and carrying the Chairperson's heavy things….Never, except under emergency conditions, should a Number 2 lead a meeting or endeavor to alter the chairperson's agenda, and only then until a more responsible prime number can step in…"

"I guess I should be glad that you are not having wrap-up after lunch…" he sighs.

We are, but I called it Futuring on the agenda.

I'm trying to update this blog on a regular basis, whether I'm training my dog or not.  I am training my dog, but its more haiku worthy at this point….less full blown post.  (See bottom…of page) 

I'm a much better person when I write and run regularly; neither of which I've been doing for MONTHS.

The transformation from relatively calm, clean, semi-balanced individual with whom you can make eye contact, to seldom-tweezed hysteric who wears her clothing inside out and cries if you add that her shirt is…"also on backwards…" was quicker than you'd think.

My brows are like bad omens over my eyes. If I don't get them waxed soon,  we'll have 6 more weeks of winter. I can tell that this is what the farmer's think and its making people edgy. 

I am the most disorganized undisciplined person you will ever meet, outside of shackles and a mouthguard.  I really struggle to maintain a few important things..running, especially, puts me in a better place AND gives me time to organize my thoughts.  It's the best thing I can do for my mental and physical health overall.  Writing makes me feel good about myself. Like I do have discipline; otherwise I'd have had another beer or watched back to back episodes of CHEATERS! instead.  

If I run and write every day, the other stuff in my life seems to fall into place.  If not…I don't have a handle on anything. 

Sometimes I see a crazy person, the certifiable wacko, on the news or in an article…and I think, "GOD DAMN…she's wacked out enough to have truly believed that her cat, Mr. Pjs, told her to kill the neighbors and steal all their spoons, but LOOK AT THOSE PERFECT EYEBROWS. Why can't I find the time to TWEEZE MYSELF! I'm not hording silverware or knocking off the people next door.  I know better than to take a cat's word for ANYTHING.  What is my excuse for having a unibrow??"

No more.

Sometimes I truly believe that anything worth saying should be said in spray paint on a wall or in haiku.
If you don't have enough paint or poetry in you, then you should just shut up and wait until you do.  And why is writing on concrete vandalism? Like CONCRETE is too BEAUTIFUL to deface???  I think foul language is in the EYE of the BEHOLDER. Or ear.  For instance, I want to cry when someone besides an optometrist says 'Our Vision' or whenever I hear ..or god forbid READ the words 'Mission Statement'….
But draw a dick on the side of a canal wall, and I say, "I see your point." 

Maybe my line of thinking is influenced by 2 back to back morning work calls where A) the first caller used the word Futuring 30 times in the space of 60 minutes, and B) The second caller started referring to so many different "programs" and "prototypes" in acronym format that it was like reading a bad russian novel. I was so confused and bored by all the vowels and consonants randomly and repeatedly thrown at me that I started humming in defense.

"HFPSSIC and WFDISST both require data from the USGS BFD….the BIA and SPFs can't connect via anything but FTP….are you humming?"

So, I started making up acronyms. 

"I believe that the NFC (No Fuc*ing Clue) will guide where we go next, as an agency, (slight belch),…but first INMC (I Need More Coffee) needs to happen"

Anyway. I'm not answering my phone here at work for the rest of the day.
I've changed my voicemail to just humming. 

"mmmm mmmm mmmm You've reached KMH at the BLM NIFC in GIS, please leave a mmm mmmm mmmm at the mmmmmmm"

Yesterday Scout and I went out to Dianne's with Ellie and Cedar. It was good:

Scout stayed out and I

walked upright mostly calm the

sheep were herded thus

No expletives necessary.

I suck at the stock dog thing.  I mean really. Like audibly.  The sucking is not just an essence…it's TANGIBLE enough to be called 'Carl'… 

Similar to my recent Pop Pies2 game addiction, once in a field with my dog and sheep, I cannot stop myself from acting on perpetual and nonproductive impulse.  Refusing to acknowledge Carl, I continue failing in an almost frenzied fashion until someone stops me.  Usually Dianne. 

"Let's keep Scout's sessions to five minutes…or three…somewhere before you lose your aim and are just screaming obscenities and crying like a toddler maybe…"

(Yes, I am paraphrasing.)

I should just give up and find a more obtainable goal or hobby, like scrapbooking or learning to play a fake instrument…on Wii… but I don't.  I keep going back.

Why? Because I can't paint?  Gardening bores me?  (Is that a weed? Because it looks as good as anything else in a jar, as far as I'm concerned)  Because I got kicked out of my book club?
(Henry Miller is NOT PORNOGRAPHY and one should never join a book club whose reading list features books that one wouldn't pick up even to swat houseflys…the
flys would thrive on that sweet corny shit… )

I mean we're there, time and time again watching everyone else move
forward at whatever pace. Some days it's a beginner with a dog who does
outruns at 7 months old, his 2nd time on sheep.
Scout and I follow
that with the Screaming Flailing Circling Barking sheep zamboni for 10
field sweeping minutes…and its someone else's turn to step up and
work.  Work like its going somewhere…
We work like we should have brooms and bulbous red squeaky noses.  We're both just so…crazy bad.  I love Scout like mad. She's the most endearing little thing to me.  She's like all my fears and insecurities with the shiniest black and white coat ever.  We both are shy of new people, prefer corners,  and are very happy to be outside running.  We both want to work sheep. 

Almost a year into training and I can see Dianne just wondering if
there isn't some other animal she can put us on, Scout and
I…something slower and maybe capable of feeling pity.  Something that
can root for us, perhaps even, when running frantically towards an outbuilding
might seem like the more obvious choice.  Children? Could Scout and I
herd CHILDREN? Older children.  Sixth graders, say; the unfortunately heavy kids.  Slow moving, unpopularly coagulated at the back corner of the playground…probably no stranger to Carl.  Give me a middle school at the end of lunch recess and I believe we can SHINE. 

It's funny how not living up to your own, perhaps unrealistically grandiose, expectations on one activity can leak over and threaten to taint every other part of your life.  This morning I lie in bed thinking about calling in sick.  I couldn't face the idea of a conference call. Having to herd people together and complete an agenda, driving the discussions to reach a point, around the point back through a set of action items….concluding the call….seemed beyond me. And like if someone questioned me at any point I might possibly cry or call him  'Dick Wad'. 

I didn't want to get up.

Then, suddenly, I hear the thudding of my insecurities down the hall, onto the bed, licking my face. A ball is dropped on my chest. The look of concentration, expectation….wag wag wag.  It's all about right now.  See why I love this dog? The black and white. The reminder of what's important.  We're ready to forget everything in order to run after something that eludes us.

I was just perusing Craig's list, Farm and Garden…hobby of mine…and came across a listing for BRAND NEW! ALL SIZES OF SHACKLES. 

I have to say that I am intrigued.  Now that Eric is laid off until the "fuels" (what you people call national forests) "dry out" (what you people call late spring/early summer)…. he is home and husbanding 24/7.  This is nice at first, when we're both on our best behavior, having missed one another during fire season. 

He gets up when I do and vacuums. I care about his day and feign interest in Battlestar Gallactica, which he tapes for me so that I can "catch up"…. 

I'm happy that he gets down time, to ski..to walk the dogs…

He pretends to understand why I insist on fabric softener, NEW SHEETS, not used ones, to be in EVERY LOAD OF LAUNDRY,

"It has something to do with…. your… hair, right?" 

The tolerance lasts usually until the first bulbs bloom outside our kitchen window, no longer visible through the haze of dog slobber.   Until the garage is cleaner than any room we prepare or eat food in.  Gradually, like the unfolding of spring, I grow to bristle at the constant presence of someone I did not give birth to.  Someone I cannot boss.

I am a person who NEEDS alone time.  Weeks of it.

Until Smokey's arm rotates into the Red Zone and the last of the fat full ticks waddle off my dog….my life could use ALL SIZES OF SHACKLES.  The skimpy pair for light restraining, and the Maxi Shackle for those days when light confinement just isn't enough.

I'm in the Boise Airport drinking a Bloody Mary.  On a scale of one to ten, I rate this airport bar version a 1.5.  One tiny splinter of celery and a mushy olive, plus some Mr. T Mary Mix.  The *2* Bloody M's I had last week at the Tucson Airport bar were magnificent.  That is unusual for an airport bar.  Parilla Grill in the Hyde Park, North End, Boise has the best. Or Linda's on Capital Hill in Seattle.  Damn good.

Why am I prattling on about a tomato-based alcoholic beverage? Why, indeed.  I'm in full on prattle mode, so I could attempt to answer but I'd veer off on something else just as I closed in a point, so….no. Let me just say that this Bloody Mary is my toast to Average. Later I hope to toast to Great, when I land in Seattle and have dinner somewhere of CIenna's choosing, sure to feature a fine esoteric drink made with something yummie such as rose petals and gin, and yet a pinch of something alarming….like cashmere sweater moth cacoon or endangered tree rat placenta.  Those crazy metrosexuals!

We're, Cienna and I,  driving to CdA, either tonight or tomorrow (the weather is a big fat emphatic question mark) to load up the Beloved Late Trix's house into assorted vehicles and drive it all off in seperate sibling directions forever.  

We're driving because Cienna didn't want to leave her dogs (Wyatt and Scout's sister Reo).  I am VERY HAPPY that we are bringing dogs.  Dogs cast a bright hue over anything you do.  I pity the Cat People.

I missed Dianne's clinic today.  I felt too scattered and sick with remnant flu to be anything approaching educatable.  I could just picture me standing in the middle of one of Janie's pastures with Scout barking at me and me flailing. Naked. Somehow having forgotten to put on clothes…rubber stock sticks flashing in both hands…oops, they are not sticks, but chickens!
The sheep would burst into flames and the crowd would scream in horror.  Fever dreams.

When I get back, the Greenleaf place will be furnished and I will try to devote more time to the stock dog training portion of this blog, and my life. I hope Jenn is still available for tutoring me.  Or…will I have to beat Patrick's score at Pop Pies?
I'm bound and determined to get my timing down. It will take all summer and maybe me agreeing to wear a shock collar, but one way or another I'll emerge a novice.  I mean, for real this time.  

Boarding…. 

The Big Shiny is stealing my soul. 
I haven't been reading or writing lately. Instead, I sit with my computer in my lap and play mindless games of no value — like Pop Pies and Scramble. It's like a crack addiction without the sexy Kate Moss thin phase. That's because I can snarf fist fulls of doodles or little snack cakes in one hand and explode pies with the other. No problem.  I'm gifted like that.

I'm glad to be home.  I no longer have hours to myself where I can waste this sort of time and not have to explain myself. Which is when you know you have a problem: when your son or spousal unit asks, "What are you doing? WHAT is making that …popping noise?" and you don't want to say, "Exploding pies…." again, and still, like the last time you were asked an hour earlier.  SO YOU CONSIDER LYING….
"Uh…"
Only you can't think of anything that wouldn't be obvious because what else makes computer game noises but a computer game? 
"My Work," you say, because your job is computer related, and adding 'My' to it, and capitalizing both, makes it vague and abstract enough to possibly NOT be a lie.  Truly my new Work for the moment is to beat my all time score of 10523. A fluke.

"It sounds like a game,"
"Really? And 'Smokejumper' sounds like a serious job?" you snap, hiding your screen, your shame…. a score of 1724. Again. The pies red and green and blue like infected bruises. 
"That's not work…You don't even have your work stuff loaded on that computer….are you still playing that stupid FACEBOOK GAME?"

It's true. This computer is my SUPER CHEAP sony Vaio, bought on huge discount from Best Buy last summer. It is HIDEOUS pastel pink and might as well be filled with bubblegum. The processor is that unimpressive.  I spilled lemon drop on the keyboard so 1/2 the keys stick.  I have to pound and cuss to use most of the right side.  But not to explode pies.

My Work.

My mother never understood my job because she never really got into the whole computer thing.  She was interested, but it was beyond her experience.  I never wanted to go into the details of global positioning systems and maps and analysis blah blah blah because one question would lead to another and eventually I'd see that nothing was clear and we were both sick of the conversation…so I'd just stop and say I wore a smoky the bear costume and told people not to smoke in the woods.  I handed out pencils at the fair. I told her the Smokey suit was anatomically correct and so I had to wear pants to cover his giant smokey bits. I told her it was empowering to be a furry bear with testicles and free pencils to scratch them with.  I would show her how I danced as the bear and she would laugh and laugh.  "That sounds like a fun job, Judy!"

So,  while I really never tried to explain my technical job to her, just the essence, we did come close once when, on one of our road trips, I showed her our route on a Google Earth map.  I said,
"My job is to make maps similar to this, only for fires…."
She stared at my computer screen.  "Oh, that's nice!" she said. "Do you draw the Starbucks and motels on? Or does the computer KNOW?"

"I….the computer knows. It's like God, only less vengeful."

Later, months later, when I visited CdA, we were sitting in my mother's living room, with my brother and his family, my sister and her husband… we were all sitting around talking about whatever…and my mom asks, out of the blue,

"So, Katy, do you still Google the Earth?"

LIke I was some peeping planet voyeur. As if my fingers do creepy things to our world under the guise of Work.

Which is not untrue.