I'm not mad at Jodi. Her obsession with Wiston Cap is actually kind of cute.  My son, Carlos, was obsessed with the Three Stooges when he was four. He called them the 'Three Students', which I thought equally endearing. He didn't talk about them constantly though; he had other interests…The way Jodi goes on and on…it's not healthy.  She carries a picture of that historical dog. I gave it to her, actually…and its not really Wiston Cap, because I couldn't find one I liked as well as my own picture of Scout redone in b&w to appear old.  It's funny because Jodi actually SHOT the photo a few months ago…but she doesn't remember.  She's such a rube, but I can't be MAD at her.

Also, the person whom I said compared himself to Jesus. He didn't.  Either pronunciation. I did.  Hot hot Jesus.

If you read my blog, you should read it with no inclination toward taking it seriously.  Otherwise the terrorists win.

During my afternoon run I was trying to decide what I had to say about the USBCHA National Finals that wouldn't be said better and by more credible sources elsewhere, many times over.  I mean, coming from a person whose biggest goal in a trial will be, once I enter one, is to make it to the post without being humped, the whole thing was more than suitably impressive.  

I guess my on-the-field highlight was seeing the Original P's run with Riggs yesterday.  It was by far the most suspenseful.   It was heartbreaking to see him lose the pen, then the 2nd shed.  But it was really awe-inspiring to see him and Riggs work together.  Even aside from the great leather jacket, their time on the field was a thing of beauty and grace.  I'm considering designing a line of P*Trick t-shirts available in better colors than pink and grey, and instead of standard sizes  s,m,l, xl, I'll have Bitch, Bigger Bitch, Neuter and Riggs.  Jen wants one. 

Off-field, I enjoyed

• Being scammed on a bet involving ass-grabbing and mid-priced alcohol by a man who compares himself to Jesus (Hard 'J' ….not the one who mows my lawn.  I made that mistake).
• Dianne's blend of savagery and charm in the Social Setting.  People always accuse me of being able to get away with saying the most outrageous stuff; give Dianne a 16 ounce Chelada and someone who takes himself a bit too seriously. Add hand gestures and stir.
• Jodi finally pronouncing Wiston Caps name right.  Now I hope she'll shut up about him already.  

Yeah, not so many updates, eh? Not even a chitter on twitter.  The steamy nougat from whom I purchased my domain name, eyeherdewe.com, has expired my name (eyeherdewe, not Katy, which seems to still be working…marginally. I am considering getting some stronger silent consonants just to puff up my nonexistent image with some fabricated originality — Katgh. Katje. Katyx. Whkaty.)

I haven't turned my computer on, although the smart thing to do would have been to let it do my talking, at least. To communicate, simply point at the screen and limit my mouth's business to chewing.

I hope that they someday invent a disposable liver, because I could use it. I know, I know…I could just buy a baby from China, but that's so TRENDY now.  I might as well drive my spare organs around in a Prius.

Anyway. The Finals are great, wish you were here. No. Really.  

That's all I've got in me at the moment.  Well, that and a ginger cookie.

"I wonder if he was named after…like, the cigarettes…" Jodi mused, "Because they were popular back then…and maybe the company was giving away product incentives…like little caps…and so that Winston's breeder got one, and thought it was cute, like the puppy…."

"IT'S WISTON CAP, JODI— WIS-TON…NOT WINSTON!"

She's been talking a freaking hole in my head and I may end up killing her.   For now we're still being polite.

Day 1, Morning. The Finals. More later….I'm not going to twitter, it makes my soul writhe just thinking of it.

Let me just say, that, I know it's wrong, and I know it's ruining our lives…and killing babies, and eating them, with kitten-head sauce, but, like most things I've ridiculed relentlessly, I've just signed up for twitter.  Tomorrow Jodi and I are driving to Klamath Falls to watch the USBCHA Finals and I wanted to make sure to spew my 120 character updates the easy way, the mindless way, the thoughtless brain dump that is our new way of communicating way.  Eyeherdewe on Twitter, if you care.

I'll also try to blog, but I don't know how much I'll have access to the full blown keyboard thing.  I like the idea of limiting myself to 120 characters. Its like poetry only stupid in a new, less romantic, not at all time-honored way.   Maybe I'll throw in some rhymes.  Just to make it the Tri-Fecta of Suck. 

Insane Killer from Spokane on the Loose – AP Headline

Authorities have put out a statewide alert for a mentally ill killer
who escaped during a hospital field trip to a fair in Spokane. Associated Press

Really? The insane killer needed/deserved a FIELD TRIP TO THE FAIR?   He's a convicted, crazed homocidal madman and it was WORTH THE RISK taking him out in public so that he could GET AN ELEPHANT EAR and a RIDE on the FERRIS WHEEL?  Who ELSE went to the fair yesterday? Was the Fair open to the public? Or was it Dangerous Miscreant day?  So many questions….

I'd kill for an elephant ear about now….

I've been having one of those days where I am supposed to be "making a
map" and "processing data" and "returning calls" and "responding to
email"…dodah dodah…"doing" my "job", as I've been reminded, and I have just
found that I can't.  I DO NOT WANT TO.  It fatigues me to think of
it.  So, instead, I've taken an online quiz, played spider solitaire,
bought some new shoes and switched careers.

The online quiz actually suggested that I might be suitable for work
as a dental technician, or it would have had I finished taking it,
since it was sponsored by the Phoenix School of Dental
Technicianry….but my new shoes said different … They said, "Step back, let us handle this…"

Anyway, just after lunch, before I went to the bathroom and washed
my hands, standing in front of Chet's cat trophy case, I decided I
should just be a Life Coach.  Or, rather, that I AM a Life Coach and
now I just need to help shift the expectations of those around me.   

"No, Robert, I can't make your map, but I can help you
determine if a "Map" is what you really want and, if so, how you can
organize your life to best fulfill this desire."

"But…you were going to make me a map showing type 1 helicopter locations…for my meeting…"

"Robert! Shhhhhh! Robert! You need to look forward and inward. Sort of Frinward….I'm your coach, but YOU are IN THE GAME!"

Robert, like many, (the other participants on my early afternoon
conference call, the girl in the stall next to me in the bathroom,
anyone who emailed me after 11) seems to be not enjoying what he has,
which is a classic symptom of someone in need of a Life Coach.  I'm
trained to deal with this.  I've read ten's of terms, looked at
pictures of professional coaches on the internet and attended, sort of, by mouse-hovering the
registration, one online training session. 

"Do you want to look at some pictures of unclean teeth?" I offered Robert, gesturing toward my screen. I'd saved some really nasty shots of gingivitus from the online dental quiz.  One was now my wallpaper.  Craggy overbite surrounded by bleeding gums.  It was enough to make anyone re-evaluate things.

Robert looked away, but continued to stand in my cubicle.  He tapped his leg with an agitated hand.

I picked up my phone and pretended to dial. This often gives unwanted cubicle visitors the hint that I've moved on and so should they.  Sadly, it is a ploy that needs to work immediately as I don't do the pretend dialing thing very well. I sort of slap at the pad until it seems sufficient. Usually it is, for my purposes.  Robert was committed. And I may have slapped an inappropriate number of times, like 30 or 40….not even international dialing justifies this.  Robert looked back, sharply.  He pulled up a chair and sat down.  He wasn't going anywhere without his map.   I hit a few more keys and "left a message,"

"Oh, hi, Lisa. .. or should I say, 'Buenos Noches!'  This is Katy..if you could call me back ASAP it would be greeeaat.  I know you wanted my advice on your life and I have some great ideas that include…flossing and maybe taking up taxidermy. Call me!"

Robert, meanwhile, was staring at the floor.  

"GOD!" I hissed at him, "FINE!"

I made his map.  But I spelled helicopter wrong and I made the tiny symbols on the map, instead of little type 1 aircraft, little handmixer symbols. They look similar from a myopic distance.  But not at all up close. They're clearly 2 beaters on a blending device.  Robert lacks attention to detail.  He would make a poor dental technician.

This afternoon I had lunch with my Arch Nemesis, Donna Godmen.  She is who I usually CLAIM to be, publicly, when I've had too much to drink in a work setting…like at conferences.  Places where our mutual peers tend to gather and drink responsibly and talk about their …work. Yawn.

"I'm Donna Godmen and I have a boobjob made of orphan tears!"

"I'm Donna Godmen and I am lobbying Congress to have Smokey the Bear changed to Smokey the Sturgeon because i think people like fish BETTER than bears and no one minds if we introduce them into any ecosystem we choose! I could introduce one RIGHT NOW, if I wanted.  No one would GIVE A SHIT! I'm DONNA GODMEN and I have A POCKET FULL OF STURGEON EGGS!!"

Anyway, I'm stupid when I drink, though I think its HILARIOUS, at the time, as do my "friends"…

So, naturally, I wondered if Donna called to ask me to lunch so that she could demand that I stop being her, drunkenly, in public.

"I'm DONNA GODMEN and I have BEEN KILLING SHEEP IN MONTANA AND IDAHO FOR YEARS and BLAMING WOLVES! Because I HATE SCRATCHY SWEATERS! AND CAR SEAT COVERS! Wolves NEVER DID SHIT FOR ME!"

She picked me up. We drove to a restaurant near where I work.  I ordered a salad and soup, which I love. I did not order a beer, though I wanted to…but I was afraid I'd turn into her and no one would be present to laugh:

"I'm DONNA GODMEN and I have a RATTLESNAKE in my UNDERWEARS because it FEELS GOOD! THE SNAKE LIKES IT TOO! I Can't GET PREGNANT FROM UNPROTECTED RATTLING!"

She even PAID for my lunch! NOT A WORD about me being her inebriated alter ego. She didn't say anything that shed the slightest bit of light upon the mysterious invitation.  Now I almost expect a severed horse head to be resting in my car driver's seat when I leave today. 

I'm sitting in the airport waiting for my flight to Seattle listening to a smokey voiced woman lie on the phone to whoever is picking her up on the other end,

"No, I got bumped…."

(She was late and missed her flight. I've been following her tragic tale for 5 minutes.  It involves Motherf*ckers not cutting her slack for having to haul her "GODDAMNED kid" across the "shittin' airport").

Meanwhile her 'kid', a cute little thing no more than 3 is chanting "F*ck F*ck F*ck"… while watching Finding Nemo on a mini-dvd player. 

"We couldn't afford no cab.  I had Mike take me…no I'm not f*ckin him no more…I need a goddamned cigarette.  Go put he lid on that bottle and save it for later…"

"I'm hungry." plaintive whine.

"Shut up. For five minutes…"

To person on phone, "She is NOT hungry, she had a pack of skittles…GOD DAMN I need a fuckin' cigarette!"

Should I ask her how she votes? And what she thinks of the Health Care plan? I could pull a republican move and tell her Obama is advocating Free Cigarettes for low income smokers.

"Health is just another word for nothin' less to lose," I would say.

But no. I'm not like that.

First, since this is supposed to ,at least part of the time, related to training dogs on sheep for eventual trialing …or 'sheeping' as Dianne has never once called it, but someone overheard it somewhere at a trial and it stick cracks me up…anyway….a brief update:

Worked dogs in P*tricks field on Saturday morning.  Lately Dianne has been letting me train with her retired open dog 'Pat' who is a HUMPER of the FIRST MAGNITUDE.  Sweet dog, beautiful dog, talented dog….but if he were a person, his fly would always be open and he'd perpetually be staring at boobs and trying to sop up anything he could spill 'accidentally' in your lap with his greasy handkerchief, one monogrammed with his mother's initials.  He would wear tiger striped bikini briefs and they would be on backwards.  He's a great dog, though.  He just has his hump set at the slightest hint of any emotion that isn't raw unequivocal authority.  I reek of raw equivocal compromise.  I sweat affection. I may scream 'NONONONO FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY GET YOUR GODDAMNED THRASHING CANINE PELVIS OFF ME!" but Pat interprets this as 'How about a hump before I fall and then send you on the wrong flank?'

In fairness to Pat, half the dogs that day were females in or coming out of season and I had pet them all, let them rest languidly against me. 

When Dianne said, "Katy, grab Pat and go out about midway in the pasture and send him to get those sheep in the far corner,"

I'm certain she expected me to do just that. As easy as that. Pat and I had been working better and better together.  We had been to the desert a couple of times and I had worked him, pre-socializing with the bitches, that very morning to a fair amount of success. He was beginning to listen to me instead of frantically searching for Dianne. 

So, I grabbed Pat, as indicated. I walked about 20 yards out, and stopped, preparing to send him. My feet had only just barely come to a halt.  I don't think I even got the 'C–' in 'Come-bye' out before he was on me so fast I didn't even see it coming.  He had both front paws wrapped around my legs and I could not move.  I yelled, I tried to kick and swat at his earnest face…FINALLY getting him off me I walked another 10 yards….again I stopped…again he latched his randy self upon my limbs.  This went on, 10 yards at a time,  across the entire 20 acre (?) field. At one point I actually thought that if I put him on the AWAY side instead of the COME BY it might help….but no…until finally I couldn't even yell anymore. I was weak from struggling, and I could hear the laughter behind me,

"KATY!"hahahah "KICK HIM!" hahahah "KICK" haha  "HIM!"…

We were about 10 feet from the sheep before they had more appeal to Pat then my leg and I was able to send him. 
When we returned to where Dianne sat, face red from laughter, residual tears on her cheeks…still grinning sort of I Told You So-ish.

"Do you ever see him do that to me?" she asked.

No, I replied.  She just nodded.  We left it at that. 

Sunday we went out to the desert.  When Pat tried his Good Morning hump, I smacked him and he immediately understood. I think the difference was not the force of the smack, it was that I didn't hesitate or put a lot of thought into it, I just did it and I really meant it.   I knew what I wanted from him and I got it. 

Once again this thing with training a dog makes me think about the one key concept that I finally grasped in mountain biking that really helped me: Keep your eyes on where you want to go, not where you don't want to go. If you are looking at that ravine you don't want to ride into, or the rock you don't want to hit…your tires will follow your eyes.  

When I react to the moment with authority, knowing what I want from the dog, and without emotion, I see results.  I know this intellectually, but I'm still in that phase where most of the time my mind is spinning on "OH GOD, WHAT IF I CAN'T DO THIS…" or "What if he/she won't stop…or go..."

Anyway, it was a great time in the desert.  Normally when I say I have 2 things, I have 3 because I like that number better, but I have to go to the BOOKSTORE now…so the other 2 things will have to wait until later tonight maybe. Or tomorrow.