The Organize-ening

I am in the most amazing situation right now.  Nick and I are taking turns jumping on the 5 am grenade of starting up this operation every morning (mobile shower unit at a fire camp) and this morning it’s my turn.  But yesterday, we organized every inch of the chase trailer living quarters and cargo space, which was very messy.  We hadn’t had much access to it before, since our boss was living out of it as he showed us the ropes.  When we became sufficiently enroped, he split, and we were like: wow, this is great, but what a mess.  

Starting with the great: there’s a micro fridge, a microwave, a brand new coffee pot, a bed, a desk, a file cabinet and a storage cabinet, a long shelf and clothes rack, plus it’s wired for light, heat, AC, has a good number of outlets for charging devices, and a full length mirror for chrissakes.  Other than that, it’s unfinished plywood.  

Moving on to the mess: the drawers were all full of the kind of junk accumulated by a rotating cast of dudes on fires who save every screw and business card and fishing doohickey, but aren’t good at filing paperwork.  I don’t wanna sound sexist but I’m usually appalled at the state of my male coworkers’ paperwork.  If being a secretary, filing paperwork, making coffee, and wearing clothes that are sexy but with plausible deniability was still, like, a viable career option, I could see myself doing that.  Anyway: it was a dusty gritty mess in the space under the bunk, and the micro-fridge was splashed with old gork, everything was everywhere and dirty.  

So it was one of those things that got worse before it got better, sitting in the middle of a pile of yucky uncategorized shit, figuring out what to do with it.  I could feel Nick clomping up and down the ramp of the cargo space at irregular intervals, organizing with his typical verve, listening to Counterparts on his iPhone speaker.   

So, yesterday was a long but good day, manning our stations, organizing and cleaning the thing that will essentially function as our house all season, and incidentally getting in a great barbell lift in the hot, gusty afternoon.

The upshot for me right now is that I’m up, the stars are still out, I’m sitting in comfy fashion in a very organized space, looking out over my area of operations.  Even if someone comes for a shower, all I have to do is tell them which stall to go to.  (My grammar check didn’t like that.  How about: towards which to go.)  There’s some extra sanitizing work because of COVID but no biggie.  This trailer does have power and an AC/heater, but I just love candlelight, and my little propane tent warmer near my legs.  It is chilly, this early, even with my layers, but it warms up great later on.  Of course I made coffee. 

The little bugaboodledoos spend their days here productively.  Buffy likes to scrape out little pockets of ground in which to nap, nose to butt (little white comma style), and Milo likes to track Daddy’s every move with his super intense, black-black-black eyes.  The breeze ruffles his strawberry blonde mane, which the sun limns, and people keep suggesting he have his own Instagram page.  It’s a little strange for me, after having spent five years on my own with the world’s cutest dog, to have Milo suddenly take center-stage.  People see him first, react to him first, fall in love with him first, now.  My vanity about Buffy is a little offended, but she does just lay there (wherever) like a mostly disinterested rag doll.  Her most high-octane emotion is when she slowly shifts her weight from paw to paw, on her front legs, with her head hanging — a limp daffodil.  Her whole life is like trying to wake up on that first morning of daylight savings time.  At night, she’ll just head on in to the tent when she wants to go to bed.  She’s not trying to see what the plan is, first.  I relate to her quite a bit.  Milo has this Hollywood-level star power; the fucking George Clooney of teacup Pomeranians.  How do we have these dogs.

Out of time 🙂

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