Appreciation was not a trait I possessed growing up. Neither was humility, but that's a different story. Sure, there were various techniques to learn appreciation I would try, mostly in an effort to learn how not to hate myself, but they were short-lived and rarely heart-felt.

Lately, though, I've started to appreciate the smallest parts of my life in a way I didn't, couldn't, before. I've begun to recognize just how fortunate I am in a lot of my life. I hate to admit that out loud, though, with the whole "Don't jinx it!" sort of mentality. I want to believe, however, that I'm past that sort of thinking, and willing to state that life is pretty good at the moment.

Kris is a big part of that. I'm not sure why he stuck with me through some of the rough patches in the last few years, but I'm really, really, really happy he did. I guess, in retrospect, they weren't that bad of rough patches. Then again, at the time, they were the worst point ever, and only with rose colored glasses can I say they weren't.

Kris does so many little things that add up, overwhelmingly so. I'm finally aware of just how many there are, and appeciate each one when I learn of them.

The other day, I wanted to clean the kitchen, but needed to unload the dishwasher before filling it again. As my dad can tell hundreds of stories about, I hate washing dishes. With a passion unequaled in the Western world. I was dreading putting away the dishes from the dishwasher, before loading it back up and washing the pots. I don't know what it is about dishes: I don't like unloading the dishwasher, but loading it is fine.

Weird.

So, I went to unload the dishwasher on that morning, and discovered Kris had already unloaded it. Yay! All I had to do was load it up and wash the pots. Hooray! Calloo, callay! I made sure to thank him that evening. He laughed.

Then, there was his acceptance, despite his (huge, big, ginormous) reservations, of my purchasing a house near one of my childhood homes. After expressing incredulity at my decision, coupled with the month delay before I told him about it:

"You're drunk? Great, I have something to tell you that I've been meaning to tell you for a month now."

"You're pregnant."

"Nooooo... I bought a house."

"You bought a house?"

"Would being pregnant be better?"

he accepted the decision and has asked how do we make it work. I explained the finances, and the logistics, and how it would work. He looked at me, let me know it was okay, and said, "140k. Either way."

Either way. Indeed.

He takes the garbage out, and heckles me when I forget to put the bag in the trash can on that rare occasion when I take the garbage out.

On Thursday, he accepted my decision when I told him I wasn't going to Colorado with the team. The tournament isn't an official Mischief tournament, and I think the women's team has enough ladies without me, and I really didn't want to travel, and really wanted to be home. Feelings of guilt set in as I dashed to an appointment at 2:00, thinking maybe I had made the wrong decision to stay at home. When I returned from the appointment and expressed reservations, he gave me a hug and said, "Stay. Do what you gotta do."

How did I get so lucky? I swear, all that heartache and pain of my youth must have been payment for this relationship.

Payment in advance, apparently.

Well, it wasn't opportunity knocking on my door, rattling the knob.

Definitely not.

Mike Sexter called me a few minutes after I finished my last post, and asked me if I knew about the business down the hall. Sure, yes, I know about them, what's up?

Well, the guy knocking on the door a bit ago was a local Channel 2 reporter looking for someone to talk to about the office down the hall.

Apparently, one of the employees of the business two doors down, the one with the keypad entrance on the door, the one whose keypad's last lock combination was known to our office since one of the employees told another employee standing outside our office door when Doyle was listening. The current combination is half known because I watched one guy type in the combo as I was walking upstairs one day, so you know the place is secure.

Totally secure.

Well, working at this company was, according to Sexter, a brother of a known terrorist who has been on the FBI's wanted list since 1990. The man working at this company had been sending his brother information (don't recall if Sexter said money, too).

Yesterday, the FBI came by and ("they're much quieter than the local police," says Sexter) arrested the guy as a terrorist.

This was according to the reporter who, wanting an interview with the people in the office next door, knocked and pounded on my office door.

Sexter, in the next office over from me, and the only one in on Friday with the office door unlocked (yay, Fridays!), did give an interview. Instead of making the obvious comment, "He seemed like such a nice guy," Sexter commented, no, he didn't know the guy and no, it's not like anyone had a neon sign around his neck that flashed "Terrorist! Terrorist!" That's the whole point of terrorizing someone: blend in so that everyone else doesn't know where the next source is coming from. Duh.

Okay, I put words into Sexter's mouth on that last one, he only commented there wasn't anyone who you would suspect as a terrorist walking around the office building's halls, pissing in the next stall over. But that really is the point. You can't judge a book by the cover, and you can't tell the terrorist by his clothes. You can probably tell the terrorist by the bombs strapped to his chest, sure, but maybe not - what if he's the victim of someone else's kidnapping and bomb strapping? Okay, maybe if he's yelling something about "Death to the infidels!" while running with bombs strapped to his chest, then you can tell the terrorist by his choice of evening wear, fine.

But some guy working in the office next door?

No. Not so much.

By not answering that knock on the door, I have to say, damn, I missed my 15 seconds of fame.

At least I get a blog post out of it.

Why is it that we are all conditioned to answer a ringing phone, open a door if someone is knocking on it, stop for the person who waves us down to ask us a question, sooth the crying infant.

Okay, that last one is based on hundreds of thousands of years of evolution. Doesn't count.

The first three, though, they bother me. A lot.

Working from home, I notice just how busy my neighborhood is, with nearly all the motion from solicitors walking from door to door, knocking on them. And the phone? Yeah, that Do-Not-Call list hasn't really been helping much. My usual, "Can I have your name and your company name and phone number? Because you now owe me $500 in Do-Not-Call violation fines." Oddly enough, the response is nearly universally, click.

Well, except the moron who argued with me about how his call wasn't a violation, even though I had no prior business relationship with his company, just before he started screaming at me.

Customer service. Who says it's dead?

Working at the office, though, theoretically, our office doors should be open and unlocked when we're here. Except that I'm not supposed to be here today.

I didn't fly out with Kris and the rest of the team to Colorado for the tournament this weekend. Feelings of guilt about abandoning my now-12-person team are nearly overwhelming, but I have to remember to take care of myself. Especially when I'm unable to fully participate in the tournament. I hate my frailty sometimes. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

So, when someone knocks on the office door, rattles the doorknob, then pounds on the door before walking away, I have to resist the urge to jump up and rush to the door to open it. I left the door locked since I'm not supposed to be here today and all the extra work I get done today is just bonus in my mind. The big monitor at work is really nice (making me think I should probably take it home, actually), so working here is good.

But I don't want to open the door.

I don't want to deal with any solicitor.

Or any delivery guy.

Or any client right now.

For friends, I would take a break, probably a distracted break as I continue to think about the work I've been doing this afternoon, but for anyone else, gah, go away, preferably without being insulted that I'm on a roll.

Especially the clients: I'm working, please don't distract me. In reality, I'm probably working on your work: wouldn't you rather I finish it quickly and efficiently?

Yeah, me, too.

Go away.

Sitting here at Kris' softball, I'm entertained by the men and one woman playing the game. It's a much different group than the ultimate crowd: nearly everyone is overweight, slow. Yet it's very clear this group of people enjoy playing the game, probably asmuch as we enjoy playing ultimate, love their sport as much as we love our sport.

Or maybe not. Ultimate players are very much an insane, dedicated group of people.

The pitcher on Kris' team is really good for the league, which I think is the B league, maybe C, I don't know how many teams in each.

Watching Kris is pretty awesome. It's close enough to baseball that Kris is clearly having a good time, enjoying the idea of playing baseball, his one true sports love, again.

I read eariler this week an article about a 41 year old goalie who absolutely loved playing soccer. He played every weekend, during the week if he could, throwing himself around after the black and white.

His wife, on the other hand, hated that he played. She feared his injuring himself, and possibly making himself unable to work. His being the sole bread winner in the family of three, her concerns may have been valid, but insisting a spouse stop participating in the sport he loves, the activity that keeps him young, and alive, well, that insistence
sounds an awful lot like marital suicide.

Kris plays softball, and risks making his minorly injured shoulder a serious injury. It's his shoulder, it's his choice. I'll schedule the massages; I'll rub when I can; I'll always cheer him on; but I'd never ask him to stop.

How could I when I see the joy in his face when he throws that perfectly grounded ball?

We've been having bathtub issues for a while now, maybe six months or so. Ever since I realized that my hair clogged the bathtub drain faster than than you can shower twice, I've used a hair trap in the tub, a trick that Allyse Manoff showed me way back when, like years way back when.

Fortunately, I learned this lesson in an apartment, well before we owned the plumbing that could get clogged and require expensive fixes.

Unfortunately, some hair still gets through, and after six years of showers, those little protein strings had their way, and clogged our tub's P trap.

The timing could not have been worse, with Ben, Lisa, Jake, Heather and Andy Fisher staying with us this past weekend. Ben and Lisa stayed over at Keith and Katie's more than our house, so that meant only four people showering in the tub.

When I called the plumber last week, he was able to clear the toliet and the main line, but unable to remove the cover from the tub's overflow (because the previous plumber who was out had cut the screws off, then put in broken screws in the remaining holes) and the drain cover. He told me when I had one of the two items off, give him a call back and he'd come out to clear the P trap.

Guess what Guy did yesterday.

Yep. Cursing the whole time.

Well, as much as someone as wholesome as Guy can actually curse, that is.

Five hours, and one good long lunch break, later, he had the cover off the tub, having drilled the broken screw out. Yay, Guy!

I called the plumber back, and, while I was having a massage in the back yard, he came over and started work on the tub. Kris managed to deal with him, thankfully. I have to honestly say there are few things less relaxing when getting a massage than hearing a plumber pound on your house's plumbing, the sounds reverberating throughouthe neighborhood.

Yeah, new plumbing is going in. Right along with that new wiring and new windows. I wonder if I can cancel the purchase of that other house without any penalty, use that money to do all these repairs now instead of later.

After the plumber left, and my massage was done, I walked into the house and asked, happily, if the shower was ready for me. Kris looked at me and said, well, no, we weren't showering in that tub any time soon: the plumber couldn't unclog the drain, and the suggested solution required the water in the tub to drain and then dry somewhat.

A tub. Dry out.

Great.

I looked at him dumbfounded. I needed a shower, and I needed it now. Tomorrow night was going to be way too late.

Who was closest to us? Where could I go shower? Brynne's old apartment was only 3/4 of a mile away. Thinking her lease didn't expire until tomorrow, the end of the month, I called her to see if she still had her keys. She did, indeed, have her keys, but she was in Los Gatos, hey, I could head to Los Gatos to shower. I thanked her, declined, hung up, and starting thinking.

Kris is always suggesting to me, encouraging me to be resourceful. Instead of giving up and asking for someone else to solve a problem, try for a few moments to think of an alternate, clever solution to a problem before asking for help. This is in stark contrast to my usual beat-my-head-against-the-wall-until-it's-bloody technique of gnawing on a problem until I'm completely frustrated, and only then ask for help. Fortunately, the latter problems are work related, and not shower related.

Nearest friend now that Kate and Mike have moved out? Max. He has a baby, that might not be good.

Next closest? Andy Crews. Might be awkward.

Next closest friend's house: Keith and Katie. Hey, that might work.

But, really, think about it, all I needed was running water. The hose outside would be fine, except for the cold water.

Cold water.

Hot water.

I walked to the garage and looked at the faucet on the laundry tub. What do you know? It had a hose hookup.

One connected garden hose, one rag, one bar of soap, two flipflops and two confused dogs later, I was in the back yard, standing in a mud pit, washing myself as the heathens do (that is to say, with a rag).

Kris didn't realize that the place I go for Tuesday and Thursday morning workouts doesn't have a shower when he talked to the plumber last night. He realized it this morning when I commented I was going to stand in a mud pile for this morning's shower.

As I was standing in my back yard this morning, naked with the hose splashing nice hot water, I recalled a story my mom tells of how she used to do yard work in the back yard, naked at Eric's old house. She'd just head outside and start on the yardwork, who cares about clothes, no one could see her over the fence.

She did this until she heard a noise, one day, turned, and saw the neighbor's kid on his roof looking down, watching her rake leaves with only her shoes on.

I looked around to see if any neighboring houses has a good view of my blinding white butt (nope, none did), as I showered again. Part of me is thrilled the extra water I use when I shower is going to the tree in the back yard, but another part worries about the soap going into the ground. I might need to purchase biodegradable, good soap and shampoo tonight if the plumber's fix doesn't work later today.

Thankfully, Guy is out of town for a week. He might be able to handle my scurrying from the bathroom to the bedroom in a towel when he shows up at the house, but I'm not so sure he'd be able to handle a boss' full frontal nudity upon arriving to work.

That would be just weird.