The woolly bears are running!

On my way to the lab, there's an alfalfa field on one side of the road and a wooded area on the other. Apparently the cool weather this week has caused the woolly bears, whose eggs were apparently laid in the alfalfa field to hatch, and they are running for the trees. It is way early for woolly bears, but driving along that ~1 mi. stretch of road, you have to swerve to avoid squishing anywhere from 15 to 30 of them crossing the street.

My little interior designer
That was nearly the title of this post, but I couldn't really resist the woolly bears. J and I are officially moved in to the new place and out of the old ones. The new place is wonderful beyond description with only one exception: the giant piles of our crap. We've got the rooms that we really need in order. Bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen are all perfect. But the office, spare bedroom, and exercise room are full of giant piles of stuff. It's really tempting to just close the doors and not look at it, but J's mother is coming to visit in 2.5 weeks, so we'll have to at least get the spare bedroom under control. And now to finally explain the heading. J's been working on getting the things on the walls. Everytime he picks up another piece of "art", he asks where I think it should go and at what height and how it should be grouped with the other things. First the answer was to just say "yeah, that looks good" to what ever he was asking. Then it was "do whatever you want." Now it's "I don't care. You're better at this than I am." I get the distinct impression that he does not like being called "my little interior desigener", but truth is truth.

No post is complete without some dialog
I was talking to my mom the other day...

Mom: Your brother asked if I'd given J "a stern talking to" [about the whole shacking up thing]. I told him that I didn't think it was my business...
Me: You thought right.
Mom: ...but maybe your father on the other hand...
Me: Are you kidding me?
Mom: No.
Me: It's nobody's business but my own! I am a grown ass woman! I take care of my damn self!
Mom: ...
Me: Okay, that might have been an excessive reaction, but you get my point.

Count down clock: 5 days, 7 hours, 18 minutes.