I've discovered my true reasons for marrying Kris.

He reminds me of my mother.

Today, we had to leave from Helen and Toss' house at 6:00 to get to the airport in time for our flight. Or so we were told, based on Friday morning security line and traffic patterns. In reality, leaving at 6:03 AM meant we were at the terminal before the airport had posted which gate our flight was departing from.

But, at that point, I had been awake for two hours, and already ready to go back to sleep.

Mom declared the night before she was getting up at 4:30 AM. "Why so early?" I moaned.

"Because it takes me that long to get going in the morning."

"It takes me that long, too, but you don't see me getting up that early."

"You might tomorrow, dearie."

Along came 4:30 AM, and off went the alarms. Mom turned it off, and snuggled back into bed. I, vaguely awake, thought, "All right, some sense!" and started drifting back to sleep.

To be woken up nine minutes later with the realization that Mom had hit snooze and her alarm was going off again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

She managed to get up around 5 after only a half hour of snoozing. Remarkly similar to Kris, except he has her beat with his usual one hour of snoozing, which is really one hour less of sleep for me. I'd rather sleep soundly with that extra hour than wake up every nine minutes to turn off the snooze.

Last Friday, I had dinner with Pine. He barbequed, dinner was tasty, movies entertaining. Before dinner, he offered me my choice of wine glass size: small, medium, or large. I requested small, but he handed me a medium glass, pointing out the wine needed to breathe and the medium glass would do that better than the small one.

He then took out a large glass for himself to use.

A really big glass.

"This glass will hold a bottle of wine."

"It will not."

"Yes, it will."

"Prove it."

Rather than pouring the whole bottle of wine he just opened into the glass, as I was pre-drinking encouraging him to do, he filled up a measuring glass to 750 mL and poured it into the glass.

It fit.

Fast forward to tonight's communal dinner. Paul and I are washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, with Doyle helping dry and clean, too. Paul had just finished washing a really big wine glass, handing it to me to dry. I dried it, and said, "You know, this glass will hold a full bottle of wine."

"No, it won't."

"Sure it will."

"No, it won't. Who would believe that glass can hold a full bottle of wine?" Paul asked.

"Kitt." Doyle piped in.

"Fine," and I went about putting the glass away as Paul and Doyle continued talking about it. As I wandered back, I heard something about a wager. Neither seemed to believe me, so I just said, "I'll take the wager," and went to get an empty bottle.

I filled the bottle with water, comfirmed the level was reasonable with Paul, took out the glass and started pouring.

When the bottle was half way empty, and the glass looked three fourths full, I started thinking, "Crap. This may not be a Pine-large wine glass. Crap, crap, crap." But I kept pouring.

And pouring.

And pouring.

To end with the water level a half inch below the top of the glass. I turned to Paul, "What did I win?"

"Paul will be the team drink bitch."

"Sweet!"

Too bad I won't be at practice this Sunday. There's a team barbeque. I'll have to make sure the team abuses the privilege.

I unbelievably fucking hate the world right now.

I normally prepay my HOA dues three months in advance. The condo association switched management companies twice in the last six months, and in the switch lost one of my prepayments. I received a notice of late fees and liens from the new management company. The one to which I've already sent a prepayment of dues for the next sixth months.

Cingular bought ATT Wireless. Now all ATT customers are fucked. Royally. You can't add minutes. You can't change plans. You can't add a line. You can't get a new phone. Cingular says it's because you're an ATT customer. But no one answers for ATT customer service.

The city of Mountain View sets up traffic violation traps. My contest of a ticket I received in one of these traps failed, and now I have to appeal.

It's overcast.

Again.

Fucking snails ate all the new seedlings in my garden. The front yard and back yard are complete disasters. If the neighbors don't hate us, they should.

I prepay most of my credit cards. The one month I'm a day late with a payment, I still get a $39.00 late charge. Nevermind I had a credit for the last six months with this credit card.

I haven't been to a Super Happy Dev House in five months. I miss those guys.

I hurt. All the workouts have accumulated and I hurt. I can't take any anti-inflammatories for the next two weeks, so I can't stop hurting until I heal.

Then there's the coworker issue. And the dogs. And the house. And the laundry. And the projects.

Bah.

She asked me from across the room. It was a reasonable question. She was dressed in her surgeon's scrubs, having just left one surgery and getting ready for the next, while talking to me in between the two.

I looked down at my legs, seeing the foot long lines of bruised flesh under my clothes where a friend's dog had jumped up on me, then slid down thighs, leaving trails of welts, not quite breaking skin. That dog weighed more than I do. My dogs, neither weighing more than forty pounds, leave the same marks.

"Do you bruise easily?"

When I was first learning how to play ultimate, I would come home with bruises on my arms from where I hit the disc trying to catch it. Back then, I rarely came home with less than a dozen bruises on my arms, more than twenty was normal. Any injury I had always seemed so much worse than it should. A sprained ankle, a jammed finger.

"Do you bruise easily?"

I think of all the weight lifting I've been doing, and how lifting weights causes micro-tears in the muscle fibers. How the reconstruction of these muscles makes them stronger. How tired and hungry I am all the time as I try to heal from all the new exercises I've been doing.

I look up at the surgeon and think of all the vitamin K I take because I bruise so easily, and wonder how much blood am I going to lose with this surgery. Will I notice the scars? Will I heal cleanly?

I respond, "Yes, I do."