So, I've been generating the thumbnails for the videos on the UPA's College Championship Series website. This oh-so-difficult task means I have to watch these videos (oh, the horror) of ultimate. Heaven forbid. Watch ultimate. Woe is me.

I've been watching these and each time I see one of the women players put a disc up, I can't help but think, "Good lord, woman, don't put it as high as long!"

Every time.

I mean, check out the women's division round three video. Both of the hucks are freaking HIGH.

What the heck is it that these women can't huck for crap? Is it that they need to put it high so that it floats longer, to allow teammates to get downfield? Is it biometrically easier to release a disc with the angle on it that makes it go up-up-up? Guys' hucks aren't normally this floaty. I think a guy would be ridiculed for a huck that looks like these do.

Am I just jealous that my forehand hucks were never more than 49 yards long? Could that be the problem or source of my criticism?

You know, that could be it.

But, geez, woman, put it flatter.

"I don't have to read your blog. I live it."

Right. Well, I hope you read this one. I might just point you to it.

Love.

Would you have guessed, ten years, two months ago, that the woman who showed up late to the tournament, to whom you barely said more than a "Hi, I'm Kris" when introductions were made, so busy were you concentrating on the next pull you barely looked her way, that didn't play too poorly, might have played just fine, that that woman would become your girlfriend, your lover, your wife?

Yeah, me neither.

I'm so glad we figured it out.

I'm so happy you "convinced" me to let you visit; that you were willing to move to the South Bay because I couldn't stand the hour commute after the commuting hell of Los Angeles; that you were my angel; that Melissa had answered, "but if you know of any single women, I'm looking to set him up"; that Sharon wasn't your girlfriend and invited me for that Jamba Juice run; that you didn't run the first time I just burst into tears for exactly no good reason you could fathom; that you didn't run the 100th time I did it.

I'm so glad you moved in with me; that you were willing to play house together; that you told me to "just quit your job already"; that you encouraged me to do whatever makes me happy; that you trusted me; that you showed up after I had learned the lessons in love that I needed to learn, and not before I had learned them, before I could appreciate just how incredible you are.

Thank you for breaking all the rules in relationships, simply because you didn't know them: for inviting me home for Christmas to meet the parents, after we had been dating for only a month; for buying me an engagement house, instead of the ring, and then buying me the ring anyway; for holding my hand every time we go for a walk; for kissing me goodbye every morning before you leave for work, and hello every time you return from work, and every night before we go to sleep.

Every time.

Thank you for teaching me "eh" when I want to scream "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Thank you for being you, the amazing person that you are; for hearing my call when I described to the universe who I was looking for, and being so much better than I could imagine my snuggle victim to be.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world to be with you. Don't think I don't know it.

Wonder Twin powers, activate!

Form of a four year anniversary, and a decade together.

Shape of .... Amazing.

I love you.

It's late here. The back door is open. The turbo fan is running, pulling cooler air into the house in hopes of reducing the overall house temperature so that tomorrow's heat won't be too much of a battle. The little dog is snoring next to me. When she's too loud, I reach over and cover one of her nostrils, or caress her snout. I'm not sure which annoys her more.

Behind the fan noises and the dog snores, I can hear other sounds from the outside: freeway noises, other dogs in the distance.

And a train.

Growing up in Indiana, I lived close enough to train tracks to hear the trains as they ran by. One house, the one on the right side of the tracks, was close enough that on a summer night, with the windows open in hopes of some slight breeze to push the hot, thick air, I could hear the clicking of the train on the tracks, as well as the sound of the train's horn.

Tonight feels like one of those nights, and I'm pulled back to my childhood. Back to when everything was safe. When my mom and my dad were together, my brothers slept in the other room across the hall, and the hardest thing I had to do was learn my multiplication tables for the timed quizzes, because Brandon could complete his test in 48 seconds, we all watched him do so. The train horn sounding as it travelled through the town, letting people know of its passing.

I wonder if there were pennies on its track tonight.

Or how many cars the engine pulled.

Or the color of the caboose.

I guess red.