The most evil woman in the world is here at this conference.  She is so over the top evil that it is more often ridiculous than menacing anymore. 

Vivian is the kind of person who throws her peers under the bus so that the bus will stop and she can get on… then later tells everyone else she was driving the bus and, in fact, invented buses.  Do you follow this analogy? Me either! Not one of my better ones…but I have a HUGE HANGOVER.   Anyway, she is here and I spent the evening with her last night because not unlike a pile of dog poop that you don't see until you step in it, I could not get her off my shoe.

At some point during my normal course of conference social business, mid-evening, I heard my name screamed dramatically from the center of the ballroom and there she was, holding her arms out wide.  Really, I shite you nay, she cried,

"As I live and breathe! I haven't SEEN YOU IN AGES!"

Who says this outside of some bad made for tv movie staring Morgan Fairchild?

Naturally this drew attention to the corner where I was skulking, as I prefer to do, with a small gaggle of like-minded nerds, drinking and judging others.  Everyone of my group looked at her, and then me in horror and said,

"You know Vivian?" (okay, not every one of them…just one, but the others said it with their EYES.  And her name isn't really Vivian, but its what I'm calling her because it makes her seethe. Viv.)  The funny thing is normally she does not give me the time of day except in passing; to brag about something and get a few digs in.

Everyone knows her and everyone loathes her. She is a Take Credit for Other's Hard Workstress of the first order.  She's vicious and ruthless in how she conducts her dirty business in order to advance her own cause.  She is truly like a hyena in every way except the inherited social status and pack size.  She just had one guy with her last night, and usually. A big guy.

The beer, I should point out, was flowing freely in my corner. One of my favorite peers kept disappearing and reappearing with FREE DRINK LIMIT 2 PER PERSON coupons.  His talents are many.
This is pertinent, probably.

So Vivian sashays over with this big dull-witted looking lummocks, who turns out to be some HUGE DC Agency Manager several tens of layers above anyone I work for….

Vivian coos, "Surely you all know Biff Bigington!" (not his real name, but I like it better)

Most of the people in my crowd did NOT know him because they are with a different agency.  So she lists his job title and pay grade and names and titles of all we might know who WORK FOR HIM.
"Bob B? Works for Biff….Tom C? UNDER BIFF! The ENTIRE CADASTRAL SURVEY….that's right. Biff"

Biff just nodded as if it were glandular to do so.  No emotion. It was …funny.  He was drinking something on ice, which he swirled and rattled after each name or title, glanced at Vivian's breasts, more nodding.  Vivian closes her eyes when she talks.  Flutters the lashes shut as her mouth does its business.  All details that lended to the cartoon effect of their whole cheesy act.

So, I drink some more and we all end up going to eat in the restaurant. Somewhere between my fifth and sixth Polygamy Porter, I hear Vivian bad mouthing a very respected and beloved mentor of mine.  Biff next to her like a polyp.

"…and so I said, FUCK YOU, Joe Frist! And I MADE IT HAPPEN"  she snaps her fingers,
"Just Like That!"

So I said, "That's not what happened. Joe never would have said that, and you didn't make IT happen, Dorothy did!"

Then I looked at Biff and said, "Do you like politics, Biff?"
to which he sort of shrugged and you could almost hear that half hearted gland squirting more nodding fluid.

I interrupt,
"Because I'm Donna Godmen and I work in Denver…and I don't give a F*** what you think…"
which is my standard line when I've had enough to drink to be Job Compromisingly stupid. Sometimes, when she's not there, I say that I'm Vivian.  Donna is Vivian's best friend.  She tried to get me transferred to work under her recently.  Her sins are many and this far into my cups, I tend to imagine others.

Silence. 

"Where is our pizza?" I ask. "Donna Godwin must have her pizza NOW!"

Finally another guy at the table says,
"No…but.. you aren't.  I know Donna Godmen! You aren't her!"

I laughed and said, "Whatever. This is POLITICS!"

I deserve my hangover.  This morning someone I have never seen handed me 10 drink coupons for tonights social. 

"I know I can get more…..Donna…" he winked.

Today I head to Snowbird, UT for a weeklong gathering of federal nerds.  It promises to suck enough to change weather patterns in the western hemisphere. 

But first a haiku:

Teeth and Teats and bone
Everything I need to know
about life. Culling.

Susan came out to the 'Leaf on friday to check Andrea's sheep and put The Mark on those who should be sold…  these were the ones who didn't squirt milk from their full bags and/or whose teeth were bad and/or were Kate Moss thin.  Fashion has no place in the pasture, turns out. 

This criteria is not bad in general, interpreted slightly to fit almost any occasion. 

Anyway, as always, Susan is a wealth of knowledge and a lot of fun to drink beer with afterward.  She should have her own mobile Sheep Specialist van.  With flashing lights in the shape of nice full teats. 
She should be paid in more than a few Corona Lights at the end of the day. 

More later this evening when I've had my belly full of anemic Utah beer…

Today is the second day of my being a coach for a class teaching technology I haven't used in 10 years.  Needless to say it's changed.   I warned the course cadre that I was out of my element here by about a decade. That the last GPS unit I used is now in a museum somewhere. 

Yesterday by the close of business I felt so worthless and stupid that I briefly considered enrolling in night classes at clown college so that when I showed up again this morning everyone would have their expectations clearly defined for them in my huge squeaky shoes and painted frown.  I would carry a mop instead of a map.  I would call myself "Giggles" and many would use the term 'ironic' incorrectly. BUT NO ONE WOULD EXPECT ME TO EXPLAIN SATELLITE TECHNOLOGY IN GREAT DETAIL. 

I even considered, as I always consider, simply not showing up.  Hiding.  Snapping at anyone who tried to drag me out of my cubicle to participate.  I am so much like my dog it's scary. 

So, I came in today and so far everything is running smoothly, I've been able to assist a few of the slower learners, answer some of the less technical questions, things are pleasant; and I don't feel like I'm going to have to go home early or squirt water from my nose.   I even agreed to go to dinner with everyone.  At a Brazilian Restaurant.  Sadly, because I don't always, or usually, pay complete attention to conversations around me, even when they are supposed to INVOLVE me, I did misunderstand at first what was being proposed. 

"Brazilian?" I asked, looking up from my Blackberry. The alarm of my face was very apparent.  I reached instinctively for my eyebrows, badly in need of a tweeze, but illustrative, I felt, of my general policies….

"DINNER, Katy…." Charlie leapt in to clarify, "At a BRAZILIAN RESTAURANT!"

Scout gets her lady parts ransacked tomorrow.   I have always intended to spay her. She's not breed-worthy and even if she were, I'm not one to be responsible for filling a womb with anything I can't eventually send to college and/or hope to have someday support me.  
So, the surgery needed to happen, but I could have put it off forever. She just seems like a baby to me.  That is probably a big part of our problem: My perception of her. 

Anyway. I would love to learn to juggle.

Jen's fur is so pretty and soft, and her eyes so wise and kind, it's somewhat of a complete gruesome surprise to see her snarfing down 3 day old afterbirth in a steamy cowshit sauce; and yet, there she was at the Don Couch Cross Clinic on Saturday taking the time out of her efficient toddle sheepward to enjoy a sample or two of the nastiest offal around.  I'm sure in her crowd it's like bridge mix. 

It is always fun to work with Jen. She is slow and precise and intelligent and kind.  I have time to think and respond correctly to the situation because no lives are at stake.  I don't screech obscenities and she doesn't bark at me.  

We were able to pen Couch's sheep pretty easily, and navigate the maltese cross for the most part…the lesser part being my issue.  It was nice.  Don Couch was very instructive on reading livestock and using only enough of one's own body pressure to move the sheep into the obstacle while the dog is mostly secondary, backup to one's own movement. 

Later, in Greenleaf, Jen helped me move sheep from the big pasture to the arena so that a group of us could work at my house.  I'm used to this process taking 15 minutes to an hour and a half, depending on how fast I am with a latch, the canal's depth and current, plus my throwing arm and aim.  Jen went out wide and brought me back the sheep. Just. Like.
That.  I know most people take that for granted, but not me.  It was so
cool and leisurely I could have done it over and over again for the simple pleasure
of seeing something happen effortlessly and right.

The process Scout and I normally employ is speeded up and more involved:  Scout usually surprises the sheep from peaceful lowing to full on death throttle, while I wrestle with the gate. The sheep shoot by the arena, back to the other end of the field, one splits off and Scout chases it into the canal, while I scream and eventually sob; like a crybaby cracker bitch version of Samuel L. Jackson.  Somewhere near a snag I capture and drag Scout from the swirling water, giving the sheep time and opportunity to wade out and spring back to the barn….rinse and repeat. 

On Sunday Jen and I did it her way a few more times. Gathering the sheep out of the back half and moving them into the arena, thru the arena into the front. Slowly and steadily.  I could have eaten a sandwich and Jen a chicken thigh while the business went down. It was that cool.  But we didn't. Because Jen and I are on a diet.  (I promise this time).

Sometimes Jen does turn a deaf ear to my commands, because she thinks I'm a
silly not-Partrick whose main job is chaffeur and personal chef,
massager of tire old lady hips, and that I should stick to these things because I'm good at them and while
its cute the first time I tell her Come by! when she prefers an Away for the situation,
it really sticks in her craw to be told twice.   The second time rather
rudely.  I'm sure if she could speak, she'd make me call her Mrs. Red
Top.  Instead she produced the most horrible gas ever, the entire evening
into night, snoring and pooting right next to my bed, as if to say,
"Here's your Away, not-Patrick…Away…."

Sometime in the night the afterbirth formed an exclamation point on the carpet near my door.

Sunday evening I worked Scout with Dianne.   Scout is the anti-Jen.  Dianne suggests that I put some weight on Scout, that she is like an elite athlete, all skinny muscle and adrenalin, living on the endorphine high.  When she slows down, she looks good. She thinks instead of just reacting.  

I wonder sometimes if I shouldn't have Scout drag me along in a cart or little wagon. It would slow her down and make our time together more coordinated. It would give us both time to think.     

I have to get back to my GPS class….

Tony – He's sexy, he's dangerous. HE'S ITALIAN!! Lives with sheep, has tattoos in each ear. Even the neuters want a hump

I'm entering the ASCA trial with Patrick's Jen.  Scout isn't ready for an arena trial.  Or maybe I'm not ready for Scout and an arena trial. Not until they legalize marijuana in Payette County and the sheep and I can get stoned to the gills before our run. 
Zeke made it through Started last spring and is not ready for Open.  Not until they legalize marijuana in Canyon County and Zeke and I can share a hash snausage before our training sessions for the next year.

So thanks to our outdated War on Taco Bell, Jen will be my date for the Aussie Prom.

I think I should hire a limo to drop us off at the New Plymouth rodeo grounds. Maybe roll out a red carpet for Jen. Have her wear a little crown as she sashays toward the arena. 

We'd better not suck or Jen will have to hire a publicist and make a sex video to pull her out of this Aussie Club Scandal.   Actually WE wouldn't suck.
I might.  But I'm going to practice. Jen and I are going to start this weekend. We will stay out at the 'Leaf, working sheep, doing each other's hair, giggling over Tony…bonding, getting in shape and trying to ignore the white hot scoutrage simmering in the background.  

I like Jen. We like all the same things: Bacon, Tony, couches…working sheep quietly. We both have a few winter pounds to lose. We're roughly the same age.  Neither of us wants our whiskers tweezed. 

Jen is a beautiful talented dog with a sweet disposition.  I've entered us in the Novice Handler class so that she won't be judged.  It's all about how well I do handling her. 

Tony will be standing by with the camera crew.

PHOTO BY JODI DARLING

I love Portland. The weather is beautiful, I had EXCELLENT Indian Food last night and then I spent over an hour in Powells (so far). I'm going to have to buy a second airline ticket to haul the books home.  No matter, it's TAX PAYER DOLLARS! Ka CHING! I will call it Fuels Reduction!  Part of the War on Paper. 
I hardly ever buy books that someone wouldn't burn in a venomous charge to rid the world of the Devil's Prose.  I'm doing my part, secreting them away in my home where no one can be harmed by them except me and my friends, or The Damned as we like to be called.

Speaking of which, I have to head down to our meeting room in a few minutes to start my first day of serious first layer pergatory.  The meeting starts at 8:30. I decided that because I knew people would chitter like mad squirrels if I made it start at 9:00, as I really wanted to; there was NO WAY IN HELL I'm starting a meeting at 8, because NO ONE ever is ready before 8:15 – 30 anyway. All that milling around…it puts me on edge. I like a panicked rushing through the door at 8:30 thinking one was Running Out of Time to talk about Minutia.
Last night people kept coming up to me and confirming,
"Really? 8:30? Should I be there at 8?"
"No, not unless you like sitting in the dark alone….like I do at home…" doing my best Sylvia Plath.

It's like that extra half an hour completely threw people off. As if it was so edgy and revolutionary that WHO KNEW what sort of deranged anarchist week one was in for.  I wish I'd hired a homeless band to start the meeting…

Maybe tomorrow. We'll start at 8:40.

I'm in Portland! I will update later tonight….but for now:
This morning at the airport I overheard a TSA employee tell another TSA employee that he was "Livin' the dream.."
At the time said TSA employee was pushing a wheel chair containing the small hunched over remnants of an aged woman, furiously chewing her cud and admonishing the man to be careful of her "things"….
She looked like bitterness was her bedfellow.  He was smiling and singing a song. 
"I need to go to the restroom!" she shrieked.

Next stop: Nougat City.