The soul-sucking properties of my job on this day were almost audible.   Really.  My job description, and my 20 years of experience, are in processing and interpreting relatively complicated data into concise maps. That's it in a nutshell. This last year I've spent more time in meetings and on the phone talking about data and maps, but still, data and maps are usually in the equation.

Today, and yesterday afternoon,  I spent hours making and printing banners and barely edited data flow charts from the 1980s.  Which, unfortunately, is when most of my group's programs were written.  The flow charts are especially ridiculous. OLD Clipart representations of antiquated hardware: Satellite to Antenae to monstrosity….The computers back then were HUGE. At first I tried to swap out some of the clip art for something more recognizable in today's world.  A computer smaller than my car….but no,

"Keep it!" Craig whinnied, "I liked them better back then. They were substantial. 500 meg was the most anyone ever needed…"

I stuck a swimming sperm in the corner of each data flow chart, swimming away from the Computer Terminal…toward its future off the corner of the chart…. Craig didn't notice, but it made me happy.  It's the little things.

Our base is hosting a huge tour of DC big whigs.  All the agencies put together displays, beginning weeks ago, of their New and Emerging Technologies.  My agency, i.e. Craig, acted like he'd just heard of it yesterday.

"Can you big me up something like this?" he asked, handing me a piece of paper on which the words, "RAWS WEATER" were written in dry erase marker.  "I need it to be about Yay big," he gestured a sliding dimension somewhere between 2 feet and 4, "And I want the word RAWS in red."

"How about the word, 'Weater'?"  I was picturing a dancing flaccid penis. "Pink? Red would look infected…"

"Huh?" He answered.  I pointed at his handmade example, WEATER.

"RAW WEATER," I clarified, "Let's drop the 'S'…it reads better."

"Don't be a smart ass.  You know what i mean," He said. "And use that one font that we used to use all the time. The official looking one."

It took me about 15 guesses, Ariel, Times New Roman, Default Sans Serif, before he produced a memo from 1984….

"This one! It's like a typewriter!"

The font he chose was Courier. REALLY!

And so I made his banners, and his charts, and printed them up and handed them to him in a neat little pile, with sperms in the corner and all the colors just slightly off. 
He loved them. 

"Get Terri to hang them," he told me, "She's better at precision work,"

"BUT DON'T WORRY: I'm giving you all the credit." he patted me on the shoulder.

Craig isn't getting the sex anymore. It's tough being 56 and single.  Heath gained all his weight back and can't wash himself.  Susan might be gay, though I strongly doubt this, not because of all the men she's dated, or that she hasn't ever shown an interest in the naked Brittney picture Craig keeps trying to show her….but because she has far too many kitten pictures on her cubicle wall.

"Everyone knows that lesbians don't like kittens," I tell Craig.
"Really?" he asks.
"Really," i tell him.  "Don't you read the news? Gay men LOVE cats and so there might be a war at some point….it won't be pretty, but it won't be ugly. It will be terse. It will be flippant. It will be well accessorized."

I mess with Craig constantly. He is my bosses boss and he has been retired on the job for years. He is probably the longest running employee on base. He lived here and worked as a firefighter after 'Nam.  He cannot hear and so he gossips at top volume, sitting in my cubicle, about everyone else who sits around me.  Which is one reason that I cannot ever give him a serious answer.  I don't give a SHIT who Susan sleeps with (Craig keeps wishing it would be HIM, but since she isn't taking the 56 year old bigoted deaf bait, she is clearly an Indigo Girl fan). 

"Should I tell Heath that he needs to figure out a way to bathe? I'm getting complaints…" Craig bellows.

I can hear Heath mouth breathing over our conjoined cloth and plastic wall.

I point at the wall and indicate that Craig should shut up.  "What? You think he can hear me? He breathes too fucking loud…."

I cough and open and close drawers.  I turn back to my keyboard.  I want him to leave so badly that I find myself humming thru gritted teeth.

"Did you know that Terry isn't Chinese? She's a gook!"

I don't even know what that terminology means, except that it isn't good.  Terry is the nicest woman, and most efficient programmer we have.   Every time our unit has a potluck, Craig asks her to bring "something Chinese…whatever you fix at home." 

"I guess next time I'll ask her to bring Gook Food to our potluck…"

"JESUS!" I hiss, "That's a horrible thing to say! GODDAMN!" I gesture to indicate all that is around me, everyone.

Craig gets up,

"You shouldn't say 'Jesus' or 'Goddamn'. That is unacceptable…..Don is a Christian and he has complained about your language." 

He walks down the isle to Susan's cubicle where I hear him demand, "Do you like cats? Or is this irony?"

…Sometimes, when we're working together (or so I think), Jen gives me this look like,

"You are talking a fu*king hole in my head,"

And then she wags, slightly, as if to add,

"honey….why don't you stand over there? Behind the truck…"

Friday night we participated at the Canyon County Fair stockdog demo, with Jodi and Echo and Zip, Jaenne and Mo, Janie and Roy….a couple of Couches.  The course was setup like a clover-leaf and the object was to maneuver the sheep around barrels and re-pen in a decent time.  The experience highlighted how not yet less than completely sucky I am at steering Jen.  My timing continues to need serious work.  Also, Jen has strong opinions on how things should be done.  I don't like to scream "GODDAMN IT WHAT ARE YOU DOING? AWAY! A-AWAY! FOR THE LOVE OF JITTERY JESUS GET YOUR CURLY ASS AAAAWAAY!"  because it frightens the children and makes my throat dry.  So, Jen didn't take an away. She did it Her Way. It took awhile and our cloverleaf more resembled an angsty dandylion. Jen is getting thinner and faster everyday, but I chalked some of her ignoring me in favor of short cuts ("How about we just skip this barrel, shrill Not Patrick; it's just like the other 2 and I look better on my Come By side…") up to heat (95+) and Jen being Elderly.  She takes shortcuts, poor old lady, because she gets tired.    

The really important thing to note here is that there were no Elephant Ears. I was promised elephant ears and a six pack, not for the first time in my life, but this time I wasn't even going to pretend it was Forever, nor did I intend to support the elephant ears and watch the 6 pack bloat to hairy party ball….  Still, nada.  

Yesterday Jen and I went to the desert with Dianne and Jaenne and various dogs.  Jen and I bickered while we worked, I whistled badly, she tried to ignore me..more of those sidelong glances…she looking pointedly back at the passenger seat of the truck….  which I put her in when she finished her run.  Because NOT putting her in, just letting her watch…turns out that's bad.

Dianne: "You just let her stare at the sheep like this?"

Me: "Uhhhhh."

Dianne: "That is not helping to break down her eye."

Sometimes its so obvious, so tangible that Dianne probably would like to pluck it from the air between us and beat me senseless with it.

Still, we enjoyed hanging out.  I love the desert.  All the dogs worked great.  The sheep appeared stoic as usual.  Until the end when the 5 who had been being worked decided to make a break for it.  They ran at top sheep speed for the BLM horizon and disappeared into it.   After some running, hiking, looking for sheep… we spotted them on a distant hill and Jen brought them back, estimated 700 yardish outrun over uneven terrain, uphill, downhill, sagebrush, etc.  She was not really even too winded.  And it was hot.  Those 4-5 mile runs in the foothills are clearly paying off. She completely blew her tired old lady act, the curly tart.

This is my weekend update in brief.  I'm promising myself to update this every day for awhile. Even if its not pretty.   I never did get my Elephant ear.

I'm starting to feel bad about the lack of pictures for my blog…so
I'm inserting a random one from my hard drive just to spruce things
up.  This one I took with my cell phone camera last summer on a bike
ride with my friend Cindy.  She saw this rusty iron garden hook lying
in the ditch and decided, as she always does, to pick it up and take it
home.

"Do you know what these things cost new?" she asked me.
"No.
I do not….but I know roughly what it will cost to have it removed
from your spleen…" I replied, "more than everything you've purchased
off of Ebay. Ever. Combined. Times ten."

(It is relevant to note that Cindy has purchased, rashly, drunkenly, among THOUSANDS of other things, two cars from Ebay.)

Cindy is also on the cheaper federal blue cross plan.  The only thing it covers are flu shots and whatever kleenix you use while in the hospital.

I
thought it might be the last picture taken of Cindy before she impaled
herself on a garden hook going 25 mph down a washboard gravel road on
her bike.  Happily, it wasn't.  We were only about 1.5 miles from my
house though.  She did manage to crash and rip her pants and make a
child cry by screaming FUCK FUCK FUCK in little girl's driveway.

Some other things Cindy has retrieved on bike rides, hikes, river trips, and fires are:

Men's boxer shorts ("They are almost NEW! And FLANNEL! I'm GOING TO WASH THEM!!")

A Tractor Seat ("This will be great on my porch!"  I had to ride with it for 3 days in the fire truck, in my lap. She doesn't even have a porch.)

A single sandal ("It's A BIRKENSTOCK!….the other one might be here somewhere!" It wasn't. She still has that shoe)

A manikin head….this has happened twice.  Both on river trips.
Both currently impaled on stakes in her yard.  Neighbors fear Cindy.  I
should have some heads in my yard….

I truly love mtn biking. And Cindy.

This last weekend I took a whirlwind road trip with Scout.  We drove to Seattle, to the Athena Trial, and home.   
It was nice after spending half the week emerged in raw sewage (BOISE sewage, BY THE WAY, not GREENLEAF sewage….my Greenleaf Estate actually features a 'drain field', whatever that means…I picture a vast swirling shitstorm if it ever backs up, probably including furniture and animals and maybe even missing relatives…A Brown Hole, if you will, of the sewage universe…but I digress…I can wax all scientific on my potty physics another time); it was nice getting out of town. 

Thursday night I spent in Seattle and drank my weight in Lemon Drop martinis at the Virginian with Cienna.  We ate the best fresh mozarella salad and 'pork belly' ever. (Hearts hearts hearts…I love that place.) I bought Cienna new shoes, one of which she promptly lost downtown….and we spent 2 hours inquiring in every shop near her house to no avail.  In the future I think she should paint her feet and build up callouses.  Like I (said I) did when I was her age.  With those final words of Mother Wisdom, Scout and Idrove on.

Friday and Saturday night I slept in my mobile home (Subaru Outback) at the Athena trial.

Highlights:
Amy Raymond's sense of humor.  She is pretty deadpan and dry with her wit. I love that.  She is the kind of strong personality who could watch all variety of bad shit go down and find something to laugh about.  Issue some dry little comment that would sum it all up amusingly.  She lives out in the middle of Don Quixote's delirium; windmills and wheat and miles and miles of everyone else's expectations. It's incredibly beautiful but harsh.  At her age I would have lasted 3 weeks.  Maybe.  That was before the internets, though, and books through the mail.  I could make it 6 weeks now.  I'd learn to taxidermy and make Dianne a new coat.  (JUST KIDDING, DIANNE, THAT THING IS AWESOME! I think we should embroider some dice on it…)

Walla Walla – We walked around WW on Saturday afternoon.  Mary (Hamilton) gave us the tour of wine and cheese shops.  It's a great midsized town. I'd say a better downtown than Boise. I'd like to go back and swim through it more slowly next time.    

The Trial – A fun event.  (I was, again, just a spectator. I could have run Scout, I suppose…or a man in a kilt…but I didn't. Next time.)  Small field, ridiculous set out.  The runs were quick (Five minutes, four for Novice).  Everyone I know did well. Dianne ran Fame (pronounced 'FAAWM) for the first time and it was very nice.  Amy and Nikki did really well.  Jaenne and Mo – Awesome.  Jodi will say she didn't do well, but most of us saw something different. SUSAN AND VANGIE WON the first day in PRO-NOVICE* (which really was better than Open at this trial on that day), Mary and Ford won the second day.  I wish I could tell you the scores, but I was fending off a Steve's Smokeshack digestive coma for much of it, so mostly I just sort of yawped and clapped like a crazed seal, often at the appropriate time. I'm not a detail person.  

That's the update for now. Today I have my own gubment windmills to tilt at.

*Changed as per Susan's correction

A Sad Brief Tale of My Shitty Twelth Hour, So Far…

Jeff's sparse hair is slicked straight back from his forehead and he looks a little like Robert Duval.  His name is Jeff, but inexplicably the name stitched on his pocket says, 'Steve'….he came to the door in his stocking feet and thus he has remained, puttering about my house and yard with clipboard. Jen follows him everywhere, sashaying behind him looking like the Lady of the House.  (Aside: I've recently become aware of the striking resemblance between Jen and Joan Crawford) Jeff put down a little red rug on my front doorstep, I'm not certain why. He has stepped over it twice.  Maybe we'll kneel together on it later? Before the 'snaking'?  For this "initial visit" I am getting a 25 dollar discount; the estimated total cost is somewhere in the six hundred dollar range.  But the estimate includes a lot of shrugging.  Maybe I get to keep the red kneeling rug?

Jeff says that what I have is probably a "chronic situation."  He is not the first to suggest such a thing about me, but he is the first to suggest it about my plumbing…He says this several times during the first 1/2 hour. I can tell he is fond of that expression. Chronically fond of it.

He suspects that I have a Root Problem. I have at least 5 huge trees in my yard.  $$$.  If Eric weren't due home tonight, I'd suggest that we marry, Jeff and I.  Whirlwind honeymoon in Greenleaf,  tour of that country 'drainfield'…fix my assorted plumbings…. maybe install a fancy new spiggot somewhere…I'd make us a romantic dinner (I have 2 bags of Juanita's chips—his and hers— and fresh salsa! A 12 pack of Alaskan Amber…some whiskey….I'll need all that to make me touch the hair.  I'm afraid of hair that is artificially set into a certain pattern. Plus, frankly, I always think of Robert Duval as the kind of guy who cheats at golf, and this guy is like the mini-golf equivalent)…then it will be time to head back to Boise and feed the dogs. Once I let my dogs out of the room in which I have them all sequestered, all but Jen/Joan, we should be divorced by morning.   Jeff has only met Jen so far. She is the charming siren song, distracting my fair Jeff from the cacaphony of barking going on down the hall.

WOOF WOOF WOOF. Digging noises on the wood of the doors.  Jen looks like Blanche from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.  Before the 'accident'….

"Oh, those neighbors!" I say, waving my unwashed hand.  Jeff shakes his head. Neighbors. He understands. His hands are positively crusty. Jen wags; slowly and deliberately.  She looks at me with those big eyes only briefly. Shoves her head under Jeff's hand.

I've never married a plumber, but after mopping up sewage all evening and going 16 hours without any running water, and it being suggested that this is a potentially recurring scenario…. I think I could learn to love Jeff and his 400 pound 'snake'….It's not a 'forever' love, but what carnal love is? Give me the occasional chronic 4 hours and a decent snaking over 12 – 35 years of ups and downs any day.

He seems to like dogs.  Maybe I should let a few more out and test our 'relationship'…

(Lapse of Time)

Jeff and I watched a video of my pipes, so that he could show me why I want not just a good snakin' like I planned, but new pipes. Modern pipes. Like the neighbors have. That hot divorcee across the street, for instance,

"I did her pipes a few months ago," Jeff tells me, rubbing his shit stained hands on his work pants.  His pants are way too short by the way.  Jeff is about 5' 8" … but I'll bet 'Steve' is only 5'4".

"Your pipes are really old," the cad continues, "I can't snake them well enough."

Yeah, well. No.  What are my other options? Fake pipes?  Pipe enhancements?

(Jen has lost interest. She's staring at a fly in the window, just slightly out of reach, but not for long…)

"I can do a Root-ex treatment," Jeff says, obviously disappointed. "That will last about 6 months."

Perfect, I tell him.  Nothing should last longer. 

What is the sound of one hand slapping….

Week two with my beloved daughter at home has her starting every sentence with, "I think you should…."
You can fill in the rest with such gems as:

"be in the middle lane. AND STOP TAIL-GATING!"
"stop wearing your sunglasses so much!"
"eat beets!"
"have fewer dogs!"
"wear more skirts!"
"stop calling what comes in a Fun Size bag 'dinner'… "

I love her more than I love the quiet, blessed nag-free solitude that proceeds her visits, but sometimes I can hardly keep my hand from reaching out toward her face in a frantic claw…or slapping-like gesture.  I have to keep grabbing it back, truly. Holding it at my side.  My other hand resents having to do this.  Thinks we should let the one hand speak for the rest of the limbs, quickly.  Then its over and hugs all around. 

"I think you should relax…is your arm spasming, again??"

On a plus side, I did get my eyebrows waxed and tomorrow is a pedicure ….and she bought me a dress that is quite beautiful or would be on a mother with breasts and hips and a dress-wearing demeanor….one who shaves her legs more often than the solstice, for instance, or who can remember to sit correctly.  One who doesn't need somewhere to put her machete….I think we both need to accept that I am only capable of so much personal improvement.  Behold! My newly separated brows! United they Frown, Divided they ….uh…look surprised.  That's all I've got.

I love you, Cienna.  I will miss you and all your worldly advice and wisdom.  But not that dress.