Just Stuff

It's been so long since I've bought whole 100% full-fat milk that I forget what it "acts" like. We have been soy drinkers or skim milk drinkers or whatever for so long now (Mr. J is mildly lactose intolerant ... boo hoo). And seeing as those products are mostly water, they don't usually hold very many surprises (not counting any surprises the processing of said beverages may create). But last time we went shopping, Mr. J bought the milk, and he does not pay attention to 1%, 2%, what-have-you. I think his criteria this time were price, recycle-ability of the container, and hormone-free/organic and all that. So we have this delicious full-fat yummy milk from a local dairy, provided in a fully-recyclable glass bottle. Joy!

However, the "expiration date" for said milk is 3/29, which is a full four days away (I believe those expiration dates as if they are set in stone and mandated by law). But today, when I went to make a tasty toasty Mexican-style hot cocoa, I noticed some scum on the side of the bottle. And when I poured the milk into the pot to heat it up, there was some slimy goo sitting on top. But it didn't smell bad, and I did not see any telltale clumps of badness. So I just stirred it up and attributed it all to the joys of minimally processed wholesome goodness. But now I'm admittedly a little hesitant to take that first sip. Already that hot cocoa slime is forming on the surface of my drink. Oh, the perils of modern life! What a dangerous life I lead!

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On another note, it's a gorgeous spring day in Boise. A little smog has settled down here in the valley, but this morning's lovely 2-hour hike with friend Rhonda and the pooches got us up into the fresh air and out of the "fray" that is our little city on a Wednesday morning. I really need to remember how much I enjoy getting up early and moving and watching The Dog have such a blast (I love these "controlled off-leash trails" of ours). So assuming I don't die from some horrid milk disease, I'd say that this Hump Day is turning into quite the pleasant day (even if the rest of it will be spent here at this computer cleaning up a document on "very low-income loan obligations"...zzzzz).

I Hate It When He's Right

So this week my funk is being brought to me by the letters PMS. If it's not one thing, it's another, and yes I do blame my funks on hormones, even though Mr. J never totally believes me.

Anyway, as I was falling asleep in my grumpy mood, Mr. J was trying to convince me that I would feel a thousand times better if I made myself get out the next day and get the blood flowing. (Yes, he was also trying to convince me of other things that would make me feel better, but I am keeping this mostly G rated.) I grumbled and growled and essentially gave him the oh-so-grown-up reply of, "Why don't you go out and move around?" Sometimes it's a wonder he still loves me.

So today, after a rather productive day (in addition to plowing through a bunch of work, I also organized my closet and shelves and got through almost all the laundry), I could feel the wonders of hormones working their magic. The funk was returning. So I asked Mr. J if he wanted to go for a sunset walk with me and The Dog. But Mr. J is in the throes of rebooting his entire computer and cannot be torn away from it for a second. I almost bailed and said, in another very grown-up voice, "Well, fine, if you can't take the time, even though you are always telling me I should, then I'll just stay here and play computer games." So. There.

But I bit my tongue and took The Dog for a much-needed walk. It was just going to be up the hill and back. But then The Dog and I decided to continue the loop, even though I ran the risk of The Dog getting on the scent of some deer. (Thank goodness he didn't.) Then he and I decided to add onto the walk by doing the big slog up the steep hill to really get the cardio going. And we made it all the way to the top, even though I was mentally grumbling about my sore ankle, my drippy nose, my this, my that, wah wah wah, all the way to the top. Good thing I was on my own.

I stopped to huff and puff at the top of the hill just in time to catch the height of the sunset. The sunlight was glittering through between the distant Owyhee Mountains and the gray-black clouds of the inversion layer, casting all of downtown Boise in a peachy-orange, sparkly glow. Gorgeous. Almost gorgeous enough to put a smile on this cranky old face of mine.

Then, on the way back down the steep, steep hill, I heard some owls hooting. I stopped to look up, not really thinking I'd be lucky enough to spot them. But at the top of a big ol' pine tree right in front of me were two massive owls. (I say they were Great Horned Owls, and since no one was else was there, except for The Dog, who is in complete agreement with my assessment, then Great Horned Owls is what they were. So. There.) They were huge. And they had big-ish pointy ear things. And they were courting (or at least that is my scientific assessment of seeing one really big owl trying to land on another really big owl who has her tail feathers all up in the air). And it was so very cool. Then a dog barked, and what I'm guessing was the male owl (since he was the one trying to land on top of the other owl) flew away, right across the path in front of me. Did I mention they were HUGE owls? (In fact, at one point I was convinced they weren't owls, because I thought what I was seeing was this really long neck with a sort of flat head. But then I realized that was the girl owls' tail feathers, declaring, "Hey, dude, I'm ready!")

So, that actually put a smile on this old face of mine. Within sight of downtown Boise and less than a mile from my home, I got to witness a little bit of nature. And that's pretty dang cool. I just hope that boy owl knows not to get upset when the girl owl gets cranky and tries to push him away. Honey, it's just the hormones talking. Really.

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

I just wrote a long, bitchy, moany, venting blog post about my work and the woes of my work and how much I wish this project were over (one more week ... one more week). But it was boring and depressing, and I realized that this blog is turning into too much of a sounding board for when I'm frustrated, which, actually, is what most of my journals ended up being too. And that is all fine and good for a journal that no one will ever read, but it's not incredibly exciting or interesting for the international world of blogging (even if I do have only one follower ... HI!). Besides, after writing the long, venty post, I felt much better. So I deleted it. Whew for all of us.

So, instead I'm going to recap part of the phone conversation I had today with my beautiful niece, because it just makes me smile. She called because she had just received the two box sets of books I sent via Amazon (on sale, thank you very much). [I love the idea for the National Geographic map binder, by the way! Will definitely file that away for next time!] (The gift shipped yesterday and got there today at no extra cost, thanks to my free trial of Amazon Prime ... whatever that is and which I must go cancel right now before I get charged for it.) Anyway, she could have just said "Geronimo Stilton" over and over again in her cute, growing-up-too-fast voice, and I would have been perfectly happy. What a great name for a character! But we did have an actual conversation, and my favorite part was the discussion about The Dog, whom she met only once, four years ago. So, she was, what, ... 3? Wow, what a memory. Anyway, it won't translate nearly as well, but here it is for posterity's sake.

Beautiful Niece: Thanks for the books, Aunt T. How's The Dog? [This is usually the first question she asks after saying hello, so I felt honored to actually get a full sentence from her first.]
Me: He's fine. He's taking a nap. How are you?
B.N.: Are you going to bring him with you at Christmas?
Me: I wish I could, but he would have to ride underneath with all the luggage, and he wouldn't like that.
B.N.: Maybe he could ride under your seat, like that dog you saw on the plane. [Holy crap, what a memory this child has. Last Christmas, I told her about the full-size standard poodle that got to ride on the plane right behind us, because he was being trained as some kind of helper dog. I then told her the even weirder story that the same dog was on our flight back home, a week and a half later. Weird! She, of course, thought it was perfectly normal. I mean, we flew in together, so of course we'd be on the same flight home.]
Me: [After taking a few seconds to figure out what she was talking about--apparently I do not have the memory of a 7-year-old--I attempted to explain the intricacies of training seeing-eye dogs without completely losing her interest.] Well, we'd have to train him to be a helping dog, and then he'd be allowed to fly with us. But if we did that, we'd have to give him away when we were done training him so that he could be with someone who needs help.
B.N.: [Without a moment's hesitation] Well, that stinks!

I couldn't have said it better, or more selfishly, myself. That would stink, though I guess not for the person who needed help. And where did she learn that phrase, anyway? Too. Dang. Cute!

And now that I have taken this pleasant break from the horrors of editing a high-level tech book written by two professors and one student who do not speak English as their first language, I can go back with a calmer brain. And that calmer brain is not just the result of the vodka and OJ I guzzled while writing this. Really!