Andy, DanO, Kris and I went off for lunch to a local Italian place. When the drinks arrived, DanO picked up his straw, removed the wrapper, plunked it into his drink, and started drinking.

"Given how environmentally conscious you are, I'm surprised you use straws. Is there a particular reason for doing so?" I commented and asked.

Kris looked over at me surprised at my directness. Andy looked over at me unsurprised, but reached for his drink.

DanO hemmed and hawwed for a few moments, trying to come up with some reason for using a straw, as I continued, "You know, those take decades to decompose. They're made of plastic."

Kris sat silent. Andy looked down, busy with something in his hands.

DanO continued to wave his hands and say little, until he finally stopped, and stated, "I like drinking from straws."

"That's fine," I responded, "As long as there's a reason, and not just a mindless use of them. Liking them and deliberately using them, say, to keep the liquids from staining your teeth, is reasonable."

We looked over at the relief on Kris' face.

And Andy's answer to my straw accusation:

It exploded five seconds after the picture.

Kris and I travelled to Florida today for this year's UPA Club Championships. It's the same tournament we won last year, and return as defending National champs. Travelling isn't something I like to admit, but, well, we have someone staying at the house and another someone taking care of the dogs so I guess it's no different than our being at the house and I can admint it.

I just realized the comma isn't working on my keyboard. Oddly enough the less than symbol (or shift-comma) is.

After an annoying flight, a mad dash, and an entertaining flight in the back of the plane next to the bathroom, but next to Kris, so who cares, Kris and I arrived in Sarasota, rented a car, and drove to our villa.

Although it was only 11:30 or so here, 8:30 at home, we were tired. Too much travelling today. Way too much. However, we were also very hungry. The Waffle House didn't tempt Kris enough, and we were unable to find a grocery store on the way to the villas, so we went back out to find food.

We drove along the road perpendicular to the freeway, on the way back to the freeway. Kris asked if I wanted to go to the ghetto Safeway, or the upscale Safeway. I said surely the upscale one was better, though I didn't realize the ghetto Safeway was actually a Publix (and how to you pronounce that name? Similar to pubic? Or like public?). After we passed the one with a Hooters next door, I asked Kris if the Publix we were going to had the coffee show close to it, did it have a dark brown brick strip mall near it.

Kris said yes, and, oh, crap, I do remember where we were going. The moment seemed very deja-vu. I realized I thought the strip mall we were going to was associated with a different tournament. I couldn't place the tournament until we turned into the shopping complex, but when I did, it all came back very quickly.

And then I thought, argh, we're at Nationals, and Megan isn't. Gah! What is a tournament without Megan? And Mirabelle?

Crap, that's what it is. A crappy tournament.

Boo.

I miss Megan already.

On the way through the security line today, I pulled off my shoes, put them in the grey bin, removed my computer from the computer bag that is about 1/8" thick and doesn't really need to be separate from the computer, set all of my items down on the table, and waited for Kris to head through the line in front of me.

A few minutes before, we had entered the second line from the right, under instruction from a TSA guy with nothing better to do than direct people into the shortest lines, the lines they were already going to go to, even without his instructions. I muttered something about the waste of funds paying for the man's salary, as he was clearly not needed: people will gravitate to the shortest line without anyone directing them. Kris disagreed, stating the area would be mass chaos without the man's direction. The single, winding line feeds into four other lines, how much chaos could his absence produce? Better people figure it out on their own than have to deal with the man directing them to location they were already going, or attempt is misdirections as he did trying to get me into a different line than Kris was in.

As our stuff approached the x-ray machine, I pondered how much radiation the x-ray viewers were receiving. Would these people sue the government in twenty years for cancers caused by the endless hours of sitting next to blasting x-ray machines? Kinda hard to argue the knee cancer was caused by anything else.

Just as Kris was shoving his bag, which was really my bag, but who's counting, into the x-ray machine, the TSA agent leaned through the metal detector door with a loud, "Ma'am! Ma'am! You need to remove your sweatshirt."

I've been wanting to do this for a long time.

The point of the metal detector is to detect metal. Sure, I could be carrying a bottle of water somewhere in that mass of fleece, but I'm more likely to be wearing nothing than to be smuggling an illicit water bottle.

I knew if I didn't remove my sweatshirt, I'd have a pat down. I hate those pat downs. "I'm going to touch your breasts with the back of my hand. Will that be okay?" "Uh, do I really have a choice here?" "No." "Well, then, enjoy."

So, I removed my sweatshirt.

And waited in line in my bra.

Just after Kris went through the metal detector, an Asian man from a different line jumped up to enter the detector. He and a relation of his, couldn't tell if it were a young man or woman, attempted to pass through the detector immediately behind him, alarms blaring "METAL! METATL!". The TSA agent who had instructed me to remove my sweatshirt, noticed me standing behind him as he asked the two men to go back through the detector, removing all the metal from his pockets. He didn't really talk to them as much as he was talking to me, realizing I was standing behind them without a shirt on.

The Asian man's wife tried to push past the two of them to make it through the detector, but the TSA agent held her back and gestured for me to come through the detector. I walked through, and was reaching for my sweatshirt on the other side, when he stopped the next person coming through the detector and turned to me. "Ma'am? Ma'am? Next time a TSA asks you to do something, if you don't feel comfortable with it, you can decline."

Yeah, right, I thought. Have you actually been through these lines?

He, continued, however, and apologized for asking me to remove my sweatshirt.

Kris, at this point, turned around from gathering up his bag, and realized I had not shirt on. I'm not sure if he was humoured by the bare wife behind him, but my suppressed laughter put him at ease.

On went my sweatshirt as I pondered going through bare breasted next time.

Went over to Andy's tonight. He had sent an invite over for 'tubbing and the Office. Mike Leech had shown me my first viewing of the Office when I stayed with him the week before Regionals, and had explained the briefest of plotlines to help me along. I've seen many more with Andy, however, and, though we don't need another show to Tivo, Kris and I have been enjoying heading over for an Office and 'tub adventure.

With Kris working late before his vacation starting tomorrow (also known as "yet another ultimate tournament masquerading as an ultimate tournament"), I grabbed the dogs for a social visit.

We watched an episode or two, then went off to the hot tub. I've been trying different shorts to see which would double best as a bathing suit, too frustrated to actually go out and buy one, having purchased two that didn't quite fit, even with the mix and matching.

Now, normally when I go hot tubbing, I can last about 15 minutes in the hot tub before I'm done. Kris can attest I like my showers "tepid" so hot, hot, hot water isn't comfortable for me. Kris and Andy seem to be able to sit in for hours, though I haven't tested this theory, with my getting out after fifteen minutes, playing with the dogs, wandering around the house, washing all of Andy's dishes, rotating the compost bin, and cleaning up the dog poo in the back yard before the two of them are done.

Tonight, however, I was determined to stay in the tub. I wasn't going to be the first out tonight.

So, after an Office or two, in we went. We talked about how cool a blackout would be, sitting in the tub looking up at the sky. We talked about Nationals, about meeting up at various ones in years past, about injuries and recoveries, about dogs (especially after the dog pile that had Shadow on the bottom crying with Blue nipping him then dominating). We talked about geeky games, Portal in particular, and how the physics might work. We talked about the enzymes he was using in lieu of chlorine for the hot tub, and the rotation cycle of the alternate chemicals, and how chlorine just doesn't sit well with either of us. We even talked about the tub itself, and how some jets weren't working, and others felt really really good when aimed at the bottom of the feet.

During all of our talks, I sat in the tub, or on the edge, or in front of a jet, or leaning over talking to a dog or two. I stayed in the tub, mostly, waiting for him to get out first.

After lasting more than three times my usual tub length, I gave up. I was a prune and completely warmed all over. I didn't need to be in the hotteum any longer, as all of my muscles were all limbered. Just as I left the tub, Andy jumped out. "If I had known you were that close to getting out, I would have stayed in. I was waiting for you to get out first,"

"Well, I was, too. I was waiting for you to get out first."

"Great. Playing chicken in a hot tub."

"Yep."

I can't stand solicitors. In particular, I don't like phone or door-to-door solicitors. I think it's because I don't like having to say no to people. I know they are just "doing their job," but their job intrudes upon my life and I don't like the intrusions.

When someone calls, I try to be polite. I usually start with, "Can you tell me your name and your phone number?" When they ask why, I'll explain, "This number is on the National Do-Not-Call list. By making this call, you owe me $500. I'd like to know where to send the bill. So, what did you say your name was again?" They'll usually hang up.

Unless it's a political call. Apparently those are excepted from the rule. Bastards.

So, this morning, the door bell rang while I was getting ready for work. Puzzled, I went into the kitchen to see who was at the door.

Mistake.

I really should put curtains up on the windows. I really should put up screeening monitors for the porch. Hell, even just the no solicitors sign would be an improvement.

The old woman at the door saw me as I looked out the window, so I wandered back to the front door and opened it. much to my surprise, the womn introduced herself as a local real estate agent. She then started asking questions.

"When do you think you might want to sell your house?"

"2020."

"Oh, that long?"

"Yes, that long. We're not moving any time soon."

"Oh. Where did you move from?"

"Burlingame." I was trying for "Burlington," as in "Burlington, Washington," but it didn't come out right.

"Oh. How long have you been here?"

"Ten years."

"Oh. When will you be thinking of selling?"

"2020."

"That long?"

"Yes, that long," I repeated.

"Where will you move to?"

"Boston." Where did that come from? Boston? Why the hell would I move to Boston? I just returned from Indiana, and wasn't that the adventure?

"Oh, but the weather is so cold there. Why would you trade in this weather for that weather?"

"It won't happen for a while."

She laughed, and offered her card. "Well, if you would take my card, in case you change your mind."

I accepted it, said good bye, closed the door, walked over to the trash bag and threw away her card. Kris wandered out, "2020, eh?"

"Uh, yeah."

"So, we have thirteen more years in the house, do we?"

"Looks like it."

"Great. Can we landscape now?"