03 May 2013

Wholesome, American cheeses.

photo credit: the Amazing Heather, who makes me never want to take a photo of my own again

If I was going to run into my future self in a time machine debacle, I would totally hope she told me that I was flying off to Bangladesh this weekend to rescue orphans from indentured servitude in collapsing sweat shops, where their tired little fingers toil over stitching little Gap t-shirts in an array of perky colors for spring.

But my leaky magic 8-ball actually predicts a trip to Turlock, California, near the town of Hilmar, home of cheese and whey products that contribute nutrition, enjoyment and value to people's lives.

Not the people of Bangladesh, but I'm sure there are plenty of other people who get enjoyment and value from the multitude of cheeses produced in Hilmar. I will visit the cheese factory just briefly, from the road, driving past, in the heat, on my way to dog agility. I will look at it, during the 7 seconds it takes to pass and think, I am lucky that I don't work in a cheese factory. Although I bet there are lots of people in Bangladesh who wish that they did.

We'll do a few runs on Saturday afternoon, me and Gustavo. Otterpop didn't enter anything, we couldn't make it for early Gamblers. The only run where it won't be 90 degrees. Her and Ruby will just sit around, enjoying the slow life of the retired. The possibility for an all day nap. Sunday is a Team day. Anything can happen. I have no predictions, the magic 8-ball doesn't offer any ideas. Gustavo might run great, he might run freaky, he might not run at all. The future is uncertain.

I am hoping, if I run into my future self, she is all, Wow, He Ran Awesome! No freaky weirdness, turned in the right places, did every single pole and teeter totter presented to him. I am also hoping that my future self is a glamorous rock star with unwrinkled skin who is beloved by everyone, including all orphans, for my excellent kindness and giant, carbon emission storing rainforest that I've grown on my giant ranch, where all the old and sick dogs and ponies get to come and live out their lives in total luxe conditions.

So you can see, I think in terms that are very pragmatic.

My only goal, as I fly by the cheese palace, full of wholesome American cheeses like Cheddar, Monterey Jack and Colby, is that I have no expectations for him. If he is going to be weird and freaky, then he can be the weirdest and freakiest Gustavo he can be.

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