Went to Ft. Funston (Fun Town!) with the Andy and the dogs yesterday. Andy already had already had a full day, so we ended up leaving late in the afternoon. Having never been except in the morning, I was curious how the experience would change.

Well, it was foggy. Does that count?

I, surprising everyone but me, didn't take my camera along for any part other than the drive over. Managed a lot of lovely photos of the dogs in the truck, but that conveys not much.

The dogs listen to Kris, they don't listen much to me. They may react slightly to my voice, and their names, but, for the most part, all they hear is "BLAH! BLAH BLAH BLAH!"

Kris, however, is in Colorado this weekend, so Andy and I played zone defense with the dogs, one on two. On the hike around Ft. Funston, we went the opposite way the three of us normally go, several people commented, "Wow, have enough dogs?" My thoughts, "Only four? Nah!"

At one point, Annie decided to run ahead of us. Since we were walking in the opposite direction, the first part of the run was close to the highway. The first part of the walk - you know, the part where Annie has boundless energy, and wants to fo run run running. The highway seemed like just as good of a place as any direction.

Silly dog.

After yelling at her every time she wandered toward the highway, I'd run along in front of her to show her where I wanted her to run. She'd run along next to me, then pass me ("I'm the alpha dog! I need to be in front!"), running somewhat along the path, but not quite.

At one point, Annie ran ahead, towards the cliff. Rather than stopping at the edge, she ran up and over. Full sprint.

Images of the warning sign of the "Aroo?" dog falling off the cliff in my head, I started to run after her. Andy, being a bit more rational at the moment, called to me, "this way!" and starting running down the path which lead along the top of the sand cliffs and down to the beach. Full sprint I ran, trying to keep up with him, as he ran along and down.

Eventually, I rounded the corner of the cliff and sprinted back down the beach towards Annie, worrying about her, wondering how far she fell down the cliff. As I rounded one of the corner, I found her, munching happily on a dead seagull.

Stupid dog.

Someone needs to use the spell checker on his advertisements.

Or maybe start with the incantations of spells from the Gods of Grammar?

After I wrote about my morning outdoor shower, Brynne wrote to me:

I really feel that the picture from last night (garden hose + naked Kitt =
priceless) would be worth way more than 1,000 words!!!

Kind of happy that i wasn't nearby. Perhaps I played a small, enabling part
which allowed a much more unique showering experience - awesome choice!!!

xo
brynne

The showers have been quite fun, so I continued to head outside into the back yard for a morning shower. This morning, I was a little more nervous than usual, as I could hear neighbors talking from over the fence. Fortunately, the fence was the one diagonally from my house, so they'd have to look over the corner of their garden, and I have a tree somewhat in the way.

Somewhat.

Their talk made me nervous, and, well, I brought out my camera just for Brynne:

Just for you, Brynne.

Definitely time to put some stones out there to stand on while showering. I bought gentle, biodegradable soap today, too, in hopes of minimizing the soap impact on the soil. We'll see. Right now, I'm having too much fun showering outdoors to worry too much.

Update: Gah! I am so white!

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.