After I wrote about my morning outdoor shower, Brynne wrote to me:

I really feel that the picture from last night (garden hose + naked Kitt =
priceless) would be worth way more than 1,000 words!!!

Kind of happy that i wasn't nearby. Perhaps I played a small, enabling part
which allowed a much more unique showering experience - awesome choice!!!

xo
brynne

The showers have been quite fun, so I continued to head outside into the back yard for a morning shower. This morning, I was a little more nervous than usual, as I could hear neighbors talking from over the fence. Fortunately, the fence was the one diagonally from my house, so they'd have to look over the corner of their garden, and I have a tree somewhat in the way.

Somewhat.

Their talk made me nervous, and, well, I brought out my camera just for Brynne:

Just for you, Brynne.

Definitely time to put some stones out there to stand on while showering. I bought gentle, biodegradable soap today, too, in hopes of minimizing the soap impact on the soil. We'll see. Right now, I'm having too much fun showering outdoors to worry too much.

Update: Gah! I am so white!

Appreciation was not a trait I possessed growing up. Neither was humility, but that's a different story. Sure, there were various techniques to learn appreciation I would try, mostly in an effort to learn how not to hate myself, but they were short-lived and rarely heart-felt.

Lately, though, I've started to appreciate the smallest parts of my life in a way I didn't, couldn't, before. I've begun to recognize just how fortunate I am in a lot of my life. I hate to admit that out loud, though, with the whole "Don't jinx it!" sort of mentality. I want to believe, however, that I'm past that sort of thinking, and willing to state that life is pretty good at the moment.

Kris is a big part of that. I'm not sure why he stuck with me through some of the rough patches in the last few years, but I'm really, really, really happy he did. I guess, in retrospect, they weren't that bad of rough patches. Then again, at the time, they were the worst point ever, and only with rose colored glasses can I say they weren't.

Kris does so many little things that add up, overwhelmingly so. I'm finally aware of just how many there are, and appeciate each one when I learn of them.

The other day, I wanted to clean the kitchen, but needed to unload the dishwasher before filling it again. As my dad can tell hundreds of stories about, I hate washing dishes. With a passion unequaled in the Western world. I was dreading putting away the dishes from the dishwasher, before loading it back up and washing the pots. I don't know what it is about dishes: I don't like unloading the dishwasher, but loading it is fine.

Weird.

So, I went to unload the dishwasher on that morning, and discovered Kris had already unloaded it. Yay! All I had to do was load it up and wash the pots. Hooray! Calloo, callay! I made sure to thank him that evening. He laughed.

Then, there was his acceptance, despite his (huge, big, ginormous) reservations, of my purchasing a house near one of my childhood homes. After expressing incredulity at my decision, coupled with the month delay before I told him about it:

"You're drunk? Great, I have something to tell you that I've been meaning to tell you for a month now."

"You're pregnant."

"Nooooo... I bought a house."

"You bought a house?"

"Would being pregnant be better?"

he accepted the decision and has asked how do we make it work. I explained the finances, and the logistics, and how it would work. He looked at me, let me know it was okay, and said, "140k. Either way."

Either way. Indeed.

He takes the garbage out, and heckles me when I forget to put the bag in the trash can on that rare occasion when I take the garbage out.

On Thursday, he accepted my decision when I told him I wasn't going to Colorado with the team. The tournament isn't an official Mischief tournament, and I think the women's team has enough ladies without me, and I really didn't want to travel, and really wanted to be home. Feelings of guilt set in as I dashed to an appointment at 2:00, thinking maybe I had made the wrong decision to stay at home. When I returned from the appointment and expressed reservations, he gave me a hug and said, "Stay. Do what you gotta do."

How did I get so lucky? I swear, all that heartache and pain of my youth must have been payment for this relationship.

Payment in advance, apparently.

Well, it wasn't opportunity knocking on my door, rattling the knob.

Definitely not.

Mike Sexter called me a few minutes after I finished my last post, and asked me if I knew about the business down the hall. Sure, yes, I know about them, what's up?

Well, the guy knocking on the door a bit ago was a local Channel 2 reporter looking for someone to talk to about the office down the hall.

Apparently, one of the employees of the business two doors down, the one with the keypad entrance on the door, the one whose keypad's last lock combination was known to our office since one of the employees told another employee standing outside our office door when Doyle was listening. The current combination is half known because I watched one guy type in the combo as I was walking upstairs one day, so you know the place is secure.

Totally secure.

Well, working at this company was, according to Sexter, a brother of a known terrorist who has been on the FBI's wanted list since 1990. The man working at this company had been sending his brother information (don't recall if Sexter said money, too).

Yesterday, the FBI came by and ("they're much quieter than the local police," says Sexter) arrested the guy as a terrorist.

This was according to the reporter who, wanting an interview with the people in the office next door, knocked and pounded on my office door.

Sexter, in the next office over from me, and the only one in on Friday with the office door unlocked (yay, Fridays!), did give an interview. Instead of making the obvious comment, "He seemed like such a nice guy," Sexter commented, no, he didn't know the guy and no, it's not like anyone had a neon sign around his neck that flashed "Terrorist! Terrorist!" That's the whole point of terrorizing someone: blend in so that everyone else doesn't know where the next source is coming from. Duh.

Okay, I put words into Sexter's mouth on that last one, he only commented there wasn't anyone who you would suspect as a terrorist walking around the office building's halls, pissing in the next stall over. But that really is the point. You can't judge a book by the cover, and you can't tell the terrorist by his clothes. You can probably tell the terrorist by the bombs strapped to his chest, sure, but maybe not - what if he's the victim of someone else's kidnapping and bomb strapping? Okay, maybe if he's yelling something about "Death to the infidels!" while running with bombs strapped to his chest, then you can tell the terrorist by his choice of evening wear, fine.

But some guy working in the office next door?

No. Not so much.

By not answering that knock on the door, I have to say, damn, I missed my 15 seconds of fame.

At least I get a blog post out of it.

Why is it that we are all conditioned to answer a ringing phone, open a door if someone is knocking on it, stop for the person who waves us down to ask us a question, sooth the crying infant.

Okay, that last one is based on hundreds of thousands of years of evolution. Doesn't count.

The first three, though, they bother me. A lot.

Working from home, I notice just how busy my neighborhood is, with nearly all the motion from solicitors walking from door to door, knocking on them. And the phone? Yeah, that Do-Not-Call list hasn't really been helping much. My usual, "Can I have your name and your company name and phone number? Because you now owe me $500 in Do-Not-Call violation fines." Oddly enough, the response is nearly universally, click.

Well, except the moron who argued with me about how his call wasn't a violation, even though I had no prior business relationship with his company, just before he started screaming at me.

Customer service. Who says it's dead?

Working at the office, though, theoretically, our office doors should be open and unlocked when we're here. Except that I'm not supposed to be here today.

I didn't fly out with Kris and the rest of the team to Colorado for the tournament this weekend. Feelings of guilt about abandoning my now-12-person team are nearly overwhelming, but I have to remember to take care of myself. Especially when I'm unable to fully participate in the tournament. I hate my frailty sometimes. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

So, when someone knocks on the office door, rattles the doorknob, then pounds on the door before walking away, I have to resist the urge to jump up and rush to the door to open it. I left the door locked since I'm not supposed to be here today and all the extra work I get done today is just bonus in my mind. The big monitor at work is really nice (making me think I should probably take it home, actually), so working here is good.

But I don't want to open the door.

I don't want to deal with any solicitor.

Or any delivery guy.

Or any client right now.

For friends, I would take a break, probably a distracted break as I continue to think about the work I've been doing this afternoon, but for anyone else, gah, go away, preferably without being insulted that I'm on a roll.

Especially the clients: I'm working, please don't distract me. In reality, I'm probably working on your work: wouldn't you rather I finish it quickly and efficiently?

Yeah, me, too.

Go away.

Sitting here at Kris' softball, I'm entertained by the men and one woman playing the game. It's a much different group than the ultimate crowd: nearly everyone is overweight, slow. Yet it's very clear this group of people enjoy playing the game, probably asmuch as we enjoy playing ultimate, love their sport as much as we love our sport.

Or maybe not. Ultimate players are very much an insane, dedicated group of people.

The pitcher on Kris' team is really good for the league, which I think is the B league, maybe C, I don't know how many teams in each.

Watching Kris is pretty awesome. It's close enough to baseball that Kris is clearly having a good time, enjoying the idea of playing baseball, his one true sports love, again.

I read eariler this week an article about a 41 year old goalie who absolutely loved playing soccer. He played every weekend, during the week if he could, throwing himself around after the black and white.

His wife, on the other hand, hated that he played. She feared his injuring himself, and possibly making himself unable to work. His being the sole bread winner in the family of three, her concerns may have been valid, but insisting a spouse stop participating in the sport he loves, the activity that keeps him young, and alive, well, that insistence
sounds an awful lot like marital suicide.

Kris plays softball, and risks making his minorly injured shoulder a serious injury. It's his shoulder, it's his choice. I'll schedule the massages; I'll rub when I can; I'll always cheer him on; but I'd never ask him to stop.

How could I when I see the joy in his face when he throws that perfectly grounded ball?