Today was strange.

I slept like crap last night, to be greeted with an overcast morning, no breakfast items I could really eat as most were bread or wheat-based (oh, waffles, how do I miss thee? Let me count the ways!).

Guy was there to help with the camera work, so I handed him the video cameras, showed him where the tapes were, and sent him off. A few minutes later, I was handing him my hat and my rain jacket, as the weather was crappy. Yay, Regionals in Burlington, Washington, where even the locals ask, "Why again aren't we having Regionals in California?"

We knew we had to be on this weekend, so we had a long warmup before the first game. Based on how the schedule was, and what we knew about the teams, I planned on playing the first two games, maybe the third game, then stand on the sidelines the rest of the tournament.

Our first game was against Shadrach, the second against Sleepover. Both teams were ranked fairly low in the tournament, both managed a few points on us, I played in both, while Guy used the games to practice videoing and Gillian practiced taking stats.

The third game was against Golden Spike, which gave us a game at Labor Day this year, and beat Brass Monkey at the same tournament. I didn't play in the game against them. We lost 13-15. The game was close the whole time, with our biggest lead at 9-6, and their biggest lead 10-13. Yeah, a 1-7 run for them. We faltered. We faltered, and the game was ugly. Almost every goal was called back on a foul, or travel, or pick, or other call. The wind picked up, and the game was ugly, and we lost.

By the time the fourth game started, I had already taken off my cleats. However, instead of playing Brass Monkey as we expected to play, we played Bozos, from Bosemon, Montana, originally seated 10th. The game wasn't really close. We were disheartened, yes, but they had lost before they even began. Crystal suggested I put my cleats back on, and play a few points, so in I went. I caught one throw just outside the endzone on a swing pass from Shirley, but didn't have the confidence to release the low release throw to Warren who had the perfect continue for me for the score. I had another score called back on a pick call that I mostly disagreed with, having seen my defender on my left as I was starting my cut, when I heard the pick call on my right. However, she said she was picked, so I lost my other goal. Sigh.

The bad thing about the last game was the headache that started in the middle of a point. Instead of my usual both sides migraine, this one was the right-side only headache that sent bolts of pain around the side of my head with every minor effort, such as standing up, running, lifting my bag. Two advil, a meal, and two more advil didn't do much to help it, I'm afraid.

So, we we'll go into Sunday without a first round bye. I think this'll work better for us. We're not always a first day team, and having a good game early on will fire us up.

Lisa and I dropped Jake off at his school this morning on the way to having breakfast. I'm starting to realize just how hard avoiding wheat and meat is, given how difficult choosing something to eat was this morning. Practically every item on the list had wheat in it, making breakfast limiting, yet entertaining in a way: how can I build a breakfast big enough to satisfy me but without bread, muffins, biscuits or cookies?

After breakfast, Lisa asked me if I wanted to stock up on tournament food for tomorrow. I enthusiastically said yes, and off we went to the island's Safeway. My entire experience on the island has been ferry to backroads to Hogwarts, back to the quaint downtown area, around to the ferry. I had no idea there was actually a highway that shuffled people away from the ferry to the other side of the island.

I learned about the highway today.

When we arrived at the Safeway, I looked around and commented, "Gee, I feel like I could be anywhere with a strip mall, overcast skies and a few trees." Lisa chuckled, and agreed: the shopping center was a strip mall, just like every other one you've ever been to.

Worse was when we went into the Safeway itself. I walked in maybe 5 steps, looked around, and wondered if I had teleported back to the Bay Area. The Safeway was exactly the same.

Conversation with Lori tonight:

Lori: dammit, I just remembered to check in because I read your blog
Lori: and we're in B
Lori: damn
Kitt: boo!
Kitt: Boo B!
Kitt: hmmmmmm.....
Kitt: boobie?
Lori: yay!

Way back when, during the hormonal crazed years of youth in junior high school, Jessica and I would head to the local YMCA to watch a particular boy or two. The pool was indoors, so we could watch the boys all year round, this one boy in particular. Jessica liked him. I liked him. Since we both liked him, that usually meant that she and he would date. This particular boy, however, might have been more clueless than the rest of them, unaware of our fancies.

This particular day of boy-watching, Jessica and I were more daring than normal and, well, may have (just MAY have) gone a little overboard in our displays of unrequited attractions. I vaguely recall that our going into the boy's locker room was the least of our transgressions that day. I must have buried the memories for all the other scandalous things we did, as I cannot remember a single one other than the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment these many years later.

There might have been an apple involved.

The following week, when we returned to the YMCA, we weren't allowed in. The facility had instituted a no-kids policy: anyone under 15 wasn't allowed into the facility without a parent or other adult. When we asked why the new policy, we were told last week some hooligans were ransacking the boy's locker room and causing a ruckus. They had complaints, and felt the best policy was to limit access of the delinquents.

Oh.

Okay.

Funny how a few bad apples can ruin freedom for the rest of the bushel.

Today, I rode the ferry over from Seattle to Bainbridge Island with a large amount of baggage. I had my roller bag full of my clothes and tournament garb. I had my field bag full of team warmups and camera gear for the tournament this weekend. I had my awesome new pink bag from Mom. I had my purse, er, backpack on my back. And I had my computer. Two video cameras. Two cellphones. Ten magazines. One book. Tons of crap. Moving it was a task, a big task.

On the ferry, I dumped everything in one side of the booth I was sitting in, and plunked all of myself down on the other side to start working. As with most of my trips, within minutes, I needed to go to the bathroom. I don't know what it is about being in situations where I can't go to the bathroom that causes me to HAVE to go to the bathroom. EVERY TIME.

After about twenty minutes, I REALLY had to go.

I had so much crap, and picking it all up to move it would be so difficult, a pain in the butt (and arms and back). But I had to go. After thinking about it for all of, oh, two minutes, I packed up all of my stuff, tucked it into one side of the booth, and waited for the people wandering around my area to reduce to a local minimum. I then grabbed the only bag that I really couldn't replace, stood up and turned to the bathroom.

I can't say I felt completely comfortable with leaving all of my crap in the booth while I dashed off, but I really, really had to go to the bathroom. This from the woman who locks her car doors when she drives her car into a locked police garage. Way worried about leaving my crap.

I managed to walk all of four steps towards the bathroom door, a journey of maybe 10 steps, when I saw one of the ferry's security people walking nominally in the same direction I was going. Except I didn't just see him, I saw him, he saw me, we locked eyes and stared at each other for the remaining six steps it took me to get to the women's bathroom. I broke eye contact when it was obvious my choices were look away or break my nose on the door jam.

Now, when you are about to do something that is frowned upon by the various powers that be in the small space you are currently inhabiting, or even frowned up by those who pretend to exert power in their own small dominion, but really don't have much power if you don't give it to them, rule number one really should be "Don't make eye contact." Rule number two should be "wait until they leave before you break the rules."

I went to the bathroom as quickly as I could. I doubt anyone I know could have entered that bathroom, done his business and vacated as quickly as I did just then. Saying I was quick even for myself is saying something, as few people can go faster than I can. Kris will confirm this. Just ask him what nickname he's given me with respect to my bowel movements. It has something to do with being the FPitW.

Yeah, so, I was fast. I had to be - that was my crap I was leaving alone.

I wasn't fast enough.

I dashed out of the bathroom just as the announcement, "Due to extra security measures and Washington state law, do not leave baggage unattended," began. The security person I eye-locked with on my way into the bathroom, was hovering over my bags as I left the bathroom. I wasn't sure exactly what he was about to say as he opened his mouth when I returned, but I preempted him quickly. "Oh! Thank you so much for watching my stuff. I was a little nervous about it. I REALLY appreciate it."

He looked at me, closed his mouth, looked at my stuff, back to me and said, "You're welcome."

When I sat down, I felt very much as I had when Jessica and I were refused entrance to the pool. Something like, "Well, crap."

Airport adventures are always fun. I get to meet many interesting people with strong opinions, people willing to tell everyone in earshot exactly what those opinions are. I have the opportunity to listen to the joyful wails of a small person screaming for his mother two rows in front of me. I experience the pleasure of sitting on half of my purchased seat because the person next to me decided the armrest was too tight, and lifted it up, enabling him to spill into my seat. Ah, the joys of air travel.

Did I mention that "fun" has many definitions?

I thought so.

Tonight at the airport, I stood in the middle of the A line of a Southwest gate, because moo the tickets are moooooo fully refundable moooo should I need mooo to cancel or change mooo them. Being able to squeeze into moooo the cattle car of an airplane is not mooo lost on mooooo me either.

As I stood in the middle of the A herd, I heard some guy two or three people back begin talking about Blackwater and outsourcing of the Iraqi war. Most of the details he told very loudly to a woman he apparently met in line in front of him were details anyone could get from reading the front page of Slashdot or, if you're more saavy, the New York Times. Most of the details ("four times the amount per person for Blackwater by outsourcing than to our own army!") were related verbatim from the statistics I had casually read some time in the last few weeks.

As with all defensive tactics the mind uses without thought, unconsciously I tuned out the man's words and rants, and focused on other items more interesting to me. Bits and pieced of the conversation would pierce my consciousness, but not much. He was little more than an annoying fly buzzing around when you're concentrating hard on something else.

The line began moving. Eventually, I handed over my boarding pass and walked down the jetway, stopping 15 feet from the entrance onto the plane, maybe 10 people away. As I stood there, I became aware of the acoustics of the jetway. The words behind me became amplified as the man was telling everyone around him how he'd been watching these events for years YEARS and they had gotten out of control. Years he'd be keeping track.

I stood there, listening for the years comments repeat several times. And then I turned.

I waited until he paused to take a breath.

"If you've been paying attention to these events for so long, what have you done to change them?" I asked.

I was tired of this man complaining. I was tired of this man spouting numbers as if they were his numbers. I was tired of this man and his complaining about the world. Complaining without solution. Had he done anything to fix the problems he saw?

He looked at me surprised. "What have I done to change them? Well, not much."

I looked at him a moment longer and turned back around.

He stopped talking.