Well, crap. I make it to SBUL, determined to play since SFUC was rained out last night and I went to the amazing dinner anyway. So, I get to the fields early, determine that yes, they are playable, update my voicemail message to let everyone know they should come out and play, then head to the restroom to change into my clothes.

Half undressed, I realize that I have forgotten my sports bra.

What the hell? That one of three things always in my car, along with a pair of cleats and a disc. Okay, I say that, but it's clearly not true, as evidenced by my asking, "How retarded can I be?"

So, I do what any self respecting female ultimate player would do: I wrap the bandage I was going to use for my quad around my chest, squishing my lovelies so flat I look like the rolling hills of, uh, southern Indiana, grab the other bandage and wrap that one around my thigh, and head out to see how this is going to work.

Surely this will work out, eh? I mean, what did women do before sports bras?

Oh wait, I know.

They didn't play.

Or, their boobs hung to theirs waists by the time they hit 30.

Client: "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be difficult."

Me: "Oh, no, no, it's okay. You haven't done this before, so it's understandable. Don't worry about it. Okay, so, here's how you do it..."

A few minutes later, I hang up the phone.

Doyle: "You should say, 'Call me again, and I will kill you.'"

Me: "What?"

Doyle: "You haven't called me about this before, so it's okay. Call me about this again, and I will kill you."

pause

"BTW, I should be allowed to interface with the clients more."

I'm up in the City today. I wanted to take the train (and use iamcaltrain.com!), but, as my plans go until 7:30 and Kris freaked at the thought of my walking from 2nd and Howard to 4th and King, I drove.

I found myself moving very slowly this morning while I was trying to leave. Aside from the fact I was up until after midnight also with the trying, this time with finishing up a client project, I certainly realized (hard not to realize) that part of my moving slowly was from the fact I'm not prepared for this client meeting. I didn't finish the work that I really needed to do, and worse, while making the changes I was making, I realized my approach was wrong, and so I needed to scrap what I had done.

Fortunately, the client won't be billed for the time I spent on the wrong solution, but the project is still behind. Argh.

Given the disaster of the drive up, I really really should have taken the train. One accident, the wrong freeway, and the realization I had no money for parking all added up to my being late for the work day. Training up would have meant that I could worked all the way up, which would have been nice.

And, seriously, the walk from 4th and King to 2nd and Howard?

It's not that long.

Just don't walk it with Messina. He'll tell you, "It's just up here, a short walk." Yes, it's a short walk, but, no, it'll be longer than you expect it to be until you've walked it three times.

Which I have, now, done.

"Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'."

- Shawshank Redemption

Maeryn stopped by to visit us at the office last week. Being the lazy, helpless one she is, she allowed her father to do all the hard work, including the lifting, and carrying, and turning, all while she slept.

Well, sorta.

The poor kid had to endure being cuddled and cood by me for a while, as well as being half woken up when I felt her soft, soft, tiny fingers or when I shoved a camera up close to her face. I know of no other baby who smiles as much as Maeryn. I'm convinced she's either joy personified, or a miswired, confused, little baby who thinks the smiley face is a general expression of existence.

During her visit, Doyle and I started commenting on all the pregnant women in our circle of friends. Pretty much all the married women either are pregnant or have given birth recently (if "recently" is defined as within the last two or so years). The one exception is, yes, you guessed it, yours truly.

(I wanted to write "me" instead of "yours truly," but "me" is grammatically incorrect there. Since I recognize that it is incorrect, I'm sure it would annoy me. But, "I" just sounds wrong there, so "yours truly" it is.)

After realizing after, well, Lisa's retirement announcement (for at least nine months), followed by Wade's limerick announcement of Christina's pregnancy, that I am the only non-pregnant, non-mother, Doyle looked up and exclaimed, "Be strong, Kitt! Be strong!"

Yeah. Kids. Like I want the buggers.

I say that, but 100 million years of evolution really can't be denied. Hormones and society certainly exert their forces upon my psyche, too. As much as I'd like to think I have more male characteristics than most straight women, that I can hang with these guys on anything technical, and be just as indifferent to the idea of a family, I have to wonder at what I might be missing. And sometimes, just sometimes, like the quiet moments I spend watching Maeryn sleeping in her seat or snuggled up with Kate, or Gabby playing in the sand looking for shells and seeing everything as bright and shiny and new, I think, maybe... just maybe...

How bad could it be?

A little me running around.

Pigtails in her hair.

The world as an opportunity, all shiny and new.

A kid of my very own. Being able to teach her science and math. Teach her how to throw a frisbee. Maybe she'll enjoy tennis or volleyball or soccer. Teach her to program at age 3, as soon as she can read (yes, my little brother learned that young). Going on a hike with her little legs moving next to me. Pray she doesn't get migraines, lord, don't let that happen.

...

...

...

And then some other kid comes screaming along, throwing a tantrum, kicking or hollering or turning red from the cry, cry, crying.

And I'm snapped back to reality.

Helluva lot easier to resist them when they're being little turds.