Kris bounded out of bed this morning after sleeping through a good three minutes of the alarm and enduring an insistent nudge from me to start his day. The sky was still dark, the dogs still snoring away in their beds. On his way to the bathroom, Kris called out "Ul-ti-mate!" in the jingle we use to sing the word, and might have done a small jig.

For the first time in just under two years, Kris was going to an ultimate tournament, and we were going together. Sure, he's been at practice for the last comple months, and talking about various ways to improve the team, but this is the first tournament he's signed up for, and the first one with the Cows.

Seems so weird to be playing with the Cows, almost as if I've come full circle. On one of my first visits to the Bay Area to spend time with Guy, I wandered into the Cows practice at Stanford. When I asked if the game was a pickup game, I was swift rebuked: no, it was a closed practice with the implication of don't bother us. And the rest was history. Without that rebuke, I would most likely never have met Kris in circumstances that allowed us to become close. And how much sadder would my life have been?

"Why do I get up a hour earlier for ultimate than I do for work?" Kris asked me as he pawed through his clothes to find his ultimate clothes. Though I really have no idea why ultimate players do it, we do. And we do it for free. Must be about the love of the game.

As we were piling our bags into the car, I commented to Kris about just how excited I was to be playing in this tournament. Heading off to the tournament was invigorating: I was going off to Do Something with Kris, we were playing ultimate together, we were on a team seeded 12 out of 13 having only up to go, we were going to hang out with a cool group of people all day, we were playing ultimate together, the team had no expectations of winning even half its games, much less the whole tournament.

That last one was key. We had no expectations.

Ultimate was fun again. It wasn't a win or die of shame situation. It wasn't a high pressure situation. I wasn't going to have people on the sidelines asking, "Why is she on this team again?" I could play, run hard, or not, and that was OKAY. Fun! Fun! No pressure! No expectations.

Only hope.

We left 20 minutes late, with Kris driving, so really we would be 20 + driving-like-an-old-man-delay late, which was before Chookie left his house. He passed us around SFO, to my incredible delight, as Kris had commented a half hour before "We should have carpooled with Chookie." and I had asked him, "You want to call him at 7:00am?" "No."

Our first game at 8:00am was against Classy, the first seed in our pool. First point of the game, as we were in our endzone and I turned to cut, the woman defending me elbowed me in the boob, grabbed my shirt, then tripped me. When I called foul, she contested the foul. So when the thrower asked what happened that stopped play, I announced very loudly, "She punched me in the boob, then contested the foul."

We scored that point.

With no expectations and more experience than Classy had any reason to expect, we went up 4-2 before they woke up. Of course, "waking up" meant playing an open game on a mixed field, and their course of action was to put in four male handlers, none under 6' tall, and skip throwing to their women. I am way past the point where this bothers me any more. If the women want to both hamper their own skills development and fail to be an integral part of their team's offense, then they can just suck it on a team that will rarely rise above Sectionals.

We kept the game close at 5s and 6s, then lost momentum, losing the first half 6-8. The second half we kept the score fairly close, but still lost 11-13. We hadn't really expected to win the game, but really, if one or two key drops in the endzone hadn't been dropped, the game could have easily gone the other way. I threw a couple scores, one of which several Mischief folk saw and totally cheered me on. It felt so good to know they still have my back!

Our second game was against That's What She Said, another perennial suck team that rarely makes it beyond Sectionals. The extent of my awareness of this team is a vague recollection of their winning Spring Fling 3 or 4 years ago against one of the two split Mischief rosters full of tryouts, then using that result 5+ months later to argue their way to a higher seeding at Sectionals that year, only to be beat down by the teams that rightly deserved the higher seedings. I can't honestly say my opinion of the team as a whole has changed, but, hoo-boy, has my position on the team ladder changed.

Yeah.

We lost that game 15-8. We lost the first half 2-8, but kept the second half reasonable, losing 6-7, matching point for point and losing only on the end of the game, not the strength of our fight. Funny how when you give up a 6 point lead at the beginning of the game how much harder it is to overcome.

Happily, not all was doom and gloom with the game. I played strong defense, laying out for a defensive bid on an overthrown disc. I came down hard on my right arm, not realizing the injury I incurred there until the end of the day when I noticed my wrist was incredibly sore. In a defensive zone point when we were on office, Jason Gische threw a no-look throw, breaking the cup, to me. I hadn't anticipated the throw, also having been thrown off by the no-look, and laid out to catch it THUNK in my left hand as I slid in what felt like good form. Hey! I caught it! was my happy thought! Even the other team was giving me high-fives when I commented it's one of the few layouts I've ever had, and one of the first I've caught.

In another point in the game, Kris received a throw out to a swing to the open side. I knew where he was going, and cut to the giant open side, where he put the disc to space. I was cutting hard, and caught the claw catch to the sound of my defender grunting. "I was so close!" I heard her cry on the sideline after the point was over, to which both Kris and I rolled our eyes at. Not only was she boxed out by my body placement, and Kris' fabulous disc placement, the only way she could have gotten the disc was to grow 2' and run through me. Riiiiiiiiiight. So "close."

Our third game was against the Cal Berkeley team, which I think might have been the B team, not sure. We played okay against them, figuring how to arrange our zone to allow a weaker player receive the disc so that we could aggressively mark against her (and it was always a "her"). The score was something like 15-8.

I was expecting to play three games today, so when someone mentioned there was a crossover, I internally groaned a bit. My feet hurt. I was tired. I was sleepy. I was sore (already). I was cold. I didn't really want to play another game. I did, however, want to win the next game.

We started the game down the first point, as we pretty much had the whole day (the first point of the second game to a Callahan, no less), then went on a scoring streak. I was able to name who scored the goals in the downwind endzone, and so tallied the score at 6-1, but someone on the opposing team insisted it was 4-1, and we relented. We shouldn't have, though, as we let our guard down around 11-5, and they started scoring like mad. At 11-9 the cap went on, with the final score close to 13-11.

I wanted to stay after our last game to see how Mischief was doing, but the fog had rolled in the rain was starting. Cold, tired, hungry and THEN wet, and I just wanted to leave.

Phew.

Okay, so, I handled all day. Only on a handful of points, did I pop, and I was never called deep. A couple of times I was called cutter in the flemish offense, which I thought was entertaining, as I had neither played the offense before, nor heard of it. The mismatches with Linda and I against our opponents were too big to ignore, so we were iso with a big amount of space to cut into. Fortunately for my clueless self, strings that set up the offense worked well enough that I didn't need to worry too much about my flemish cutting.

Or pretty much anything during the day. During the day, I threw away two discs and missed receiving one, managing a couple blocks. Nothing too spectacular, except that I WAS HANDLING. More surprisingly, someone commented that I was good at it. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically inside, because I feel such the opposite. I don't know where to cut in the handler position. I don't know where to clear effectively from the handler positions. I don't always continue the disc effectively, stalling it. I don't always throw upfield, even on throws that I could make, but hestitate to try.

I had some beautiful throws, like a bending forehand to Holly that curved away from her defender as she cut upline for me, and right into her hands. Or another up the line throw to Alex who hucked to Chookie for a score. Or the score I threw with my Mischief cheering squad watching. But I also had a turf when the wind dropped a longer forehand than I should have thrown. And I was handblocked in the last game. Shudder.

But, still.

I played well, but don't know if it was the release of internal pressure on myself that allowed me to play well, or if it was the lack of pressure from my teammates to be perfect. With Mischief, there are so few drops that every one STANDS OUT. On the Cows, hell, there are so many, how do you remember them all? Not that turnovers are acceptable, they're just not mentally punishing as they are on a higher level team.

I mentioned this to Kris on the drive home, about how excited I was that the pressure was gone. The expectations of a perfect game were gone. The team had hopes, and those hopes translated into my playing better, I wanted to be better for these people.

I didn't care that we "should" beat this team, or that we "should" play better. Playing was no longer about shoulds, or even the score. Instead, it was about how well I was playing at THAT EXACT MOMENT in this point. Could I run harder? Could I be in a better place? Could I throw a better throw? Was I playing as well as I could RIGHT NOW? If the answer was "yes," I was happy. If the answer was "no," I changed what I was doing so that the answer was yes.

So, for the first time, I think ever, I was happy with the record of 2-2.

It's all about hopes and expectations and not letting either overwhelm you.

Gretchen Rubin's site Happiness Project is dedicated to finding happiness in whatever way works. Rubin is writing a book on the ventures of trying for a year every suggestion and scientific method and idea to find happiness. On the way to being published, she publishes various post encouraging others to think about happiness, to start a happiness project of their own, to work on being happy. I follow her posts mainly off her twitter feed, but occasionally find a link or two through other sources.

The most recent post that caught me thinking asks, What image suggests happiness to you?

Without hesitation, my answer was an image of a yellow marigold. My only pause in completing the answer was trying to decide between the sunshine yellow of some marigolds, and the goldenrod yellow of the others.

The yellow of the marigold just screams sunny, summer weather when the flowers were out. The flowers themselves remind me of my mother out in the yard planting them in the front parkway and along the side of the house. The smell of them teleports me back to the days of youth when life was a carefree venture of staying out past 9pm in the summer evenings playing kick-the-can or tag, or watching the fireworks in July, or catching lightning bugs in the back yards after the sun went down and the air finally cooled enough that you could move.

Yes, a yellow marigold.

Without a doubt.

Unlike probably 99% of the world (a statistic I just now pulled out of my, uh, thin air), I have, as far as I can tell, a unique name. My last name is a bastardization of a more common name. No one in my family can recite to me the family tree so far back that the name has actually changed, but the general consensus is that it's some variation of Hodgson.

Sure, there are some very common names in my family's past, names like Brady and Rose. In our current household, though, McQueen is the most common name (1 person and two dogs), with Hodsden being not-so-common. Even outside of the house Hodsden is a pretty uncommon name.

So, pair an uncommon last name with an uncommon first name, and you end up with one of me.

Which isn't to say there aren't people with similar names. There's a Kit Hodson out there. And a Kit Hudson (the director of "Captain N & the Adventures of Super Mario Bros. 3" no less!). And a tonne of Kit Hodgsons out there. So many of those Hodgsons, I tell you.

So, finding me is really easy. You can misspell my last name, you can still find me if you spell my first name right:

My name is unique (especially if you stick that damn M in the front), so, yeah, I'm findable.

So, when I come across friends with an online presence who have to directly address the fact that other people have the same name as they do, I actually have to pause.

Wait.

Other people have the same name as you?

Of course, there are other khodsdens out there, stealing my default username when kitt has been taken. There's a Keith out there. And a Krista.

When I meet people with the same last name as I, a few minutes chatting with them, followed by a phone call to my dad or aunt, usually results in an easy trace to our common ancestor, not so far back in the family tree. I've met the wife of my second cousin twice removed, working at my doctor's office of all places. My dad seems to know all of the ones who live out here in California. It's spooky.

I do have to wonder, though, how easy is it to disappear into a crowd if you're all named the same name? Finding one particular Heather Brown, or Paul Nelson, or David Weekly, or Andy Crews in a crowd is a hell of a lot harder than finding a Kitt Hodsden. And don't even think about trying to find the right Mark Schmidt or Mark Rubin. Not going to happen. Hell, there are even several Kris McQueens, and not all of them male.

There are times when I look at my name and have to wonder. How the hell did I end up with such a crazy name? Sometimes it's kinda cool. Other times, it's just weird.

Inspired by another letter to a 20 year old self, I chose to write this before reading her notes.

Dear 20-year-old Kitt,

It's easy to become addicted to falling in love. The act of falling in love triggers a flood of brain chemicals that are quite similar to the chemicals addicts have when they satisfy their addictions. The torture of unrequited love can be just as addicting. However, as easy as falling in love is, it's just as easy to realize this person is not someone you want to be with any longer. The shine wearing off is the chemical high dropping. Given this, wait three months before having sex with him. If the shine doesn't last 12 weeks, the relationship won't either. Really, you can wait that long. Explore other options. Develop some real intimacy and see if this is someone you really like, or if it's the brain chemicals talking.

No, you won't outgrow your migraines. Yes, you'll keep going blind. Some years are bad. Some years are good. They all have migraines in them.

Learn to bend your pivot leg when you throw a forehand.

You are unconsciously incompetent in about 96% of your life. You are unconsciously competent in the other 4%. Unfortunately, that 4% has made you arrogant in the other 96% of your life. You know so little that you don't know how little you know. You make up excuse after excuse on why you weren't able to do something, that if you really wanted to apply yourself, you could have done better. Well, the truth of the matter is that you didn't, and you couldn't. You get out what you put in, and, well, quite frankly, you've been putting in crap. Stop giving excuses for why you didn't/couldn't do something. Put in the time to become someone great.

Be brutally honest with yourself. Truly, honestly brutal.

Sitting on your ass dreaming about something isn't going to get you that something. You have to EARN it. Right now, you're afraid to try. You're afraid to fail. You're afraid to make a fool of yourself. You're just plain afraid. You see yourself as a victim (this goes with the fucking excuses you keep making up). You are not a victim. You just don't see how to go from A to B with a lot of hard work. When Terry called you a troll, she was jealous that she was incapable of studying so hard. Don't let her bitchy words poorly affect your life. Go ahead and study. Work hard.

Give programming a real chance. It's a lot of fun.

Walk away from Frank. Right. Now. Remove yourself from being the common enemy, and you will be much stronger for it. When John comes knocking, don't open the door. Didn't work two years ago, won't work two years from now. For that matter, stay away from Sang, too. Wook, on the other hand, you should follow. And when you ask Andy Crews out on a date, remember it. It'll come back to bite you in a decade if you don't.

You won't get pregnant. You are incapable of becoming pregnant. Stop worrying about getting to being pregnant and enjoy the process. In doing so, however, realize that every time you sleep NEXT to someone, everyone else is going to assume you slept WITH that someone, so, sleep in your own bed.

Ayn Rand was wrong.

No one person can be everything to you. You will need different people to fill different parts of your life. You will have friends and teammates, you will have lovers. You will have acquaintances and coworkers. You will have a husband. You will have friends that mean the world to you, and friends who will crush your soul. Each of these people fill a different role. You will need each of them. Nurture the relationships that work, allow them to work together without overwhelming the other ones.

Rape is not always physical. If you feel uncomfortable or that something's not right, get out fast. This is true even if it's a relationship that you need to leave. You can replace your stuff. Take MK with you.

Wear sunscreen. You'll get skin cancer in your mid-thirties. That bump? Not a wart.

Learn to let go. In particular, learn to let go of toxic people. Even people who are amazing friends now can have events in their lives that turn their now sunny self into horrible people. When that happens, you need to know that it's not about you, and some people can't be saved. When that happens, you need to let go and walk away. Surround yourself with good people.

Along this vein, when Jessica walks out of your life, let her go.

Really.

Don't let her back in.

When you find him, you won't realize it's him. You will, however, fairly quickly know that he is an amazing person. He's a good person. A Good person. He'll make you a better person. Instead of wanting to lash out, you'll want him to understand. Instead of needing to win the argument, you'll need to understand his side. You'll love the smell of him, the sight of him, the feel of him. He'll make you laugh. He'll make you smile. He'll help you learn that adult relationships aren't about bailing at the first sign of trouble, but rather, two people who see the good in each other, working through differences to become stronger together. He won't be who you expect, but he'll be exactly who you need.

Pain is fleeting, glory is forever. Guys dig scars.

You'll live to see your 40th birthday. Given that, stop worrying so much about those pains and those aches and those weird sensations. You're particularly well attuned to your body ("overly sensitive," Mom will say), so you'll need to learn to tune out some of what your body is saying and just listen to the big stuff. The small stuff is normal.

You are stronger than you know.

Ever have a project that was so incredibly all-consuming in your life that everything else was just pushed aside, nothing else was done, the laundry piles up, the dishes would pile up except that you don't cook because it takes too long so you eat out all the time instead, phone calls aren't returned, previous meetings are cancelled, your ass grows wide and hurts from sitting on it all the time, and you're just focused on that one task at hand?

Yeah, I've had those more than a few times in my life.

I think for most people, that all-consuming project is a new child. From the horror stories I've heard, you have no choice in that matter with an infant.

For me, however, those projects are nearly all work related.

For the last two and a half weeks, it's been this website:

Yes, I know. The irony.

Not lost on me either.

I was asked about three weeks ago if I wanted to do the project. I was in the middle of my "don't take any jobs, just work on my own stuff," and being not very productive on my own stuff, so I said yes.

Looking at the project, I was wondering, good lord, how hard can this project be? The site is four pages. A remote service handles all of the big scary payment security issues. Totally, how hard could it be?

Do you know just how dangerous the phrase "How hard could it be?" is?

Do you?

Do you really?

Yeah.

I did okay, until I realized just how much I didn't know, and how poorly the payment handling service provider documented its process. Even after I realized this, I still thought the project could be completed on time, with me as the sole developer. Wow, was I way clueless.

I was, however, working with some people who understood me better than I expected, knew when to ask me if I needed help, and trusted me to say yes, which I did. I'd like to say I've managed to lose my ego these last few years, when it comes to programming. Yes, I want to go a good job, but you know what, I want the project to succeed more than I want to do the whole thing myself.

The group of people I've been working with at Doyle's company are an incredible group. Yes, even with the frustration of one on the group, a frustration that another group saw from a mile away last week, it's still a great group of people. I'm really glad I have the chance to work with them.

I hope that, well, this project does somewhat well. It was a really short, intense project, which I'll need to do a brain dump on shortly so that it's properly documented.

Unlike what I had.