Diary of a Network Geek

Or, why I know about such varied subjects as aikido, accupressure, high-explosives and poetry.
Cheerleaders have played an important part in my life. That's not what I meant, so, get your mind out of the gutter. What I meant was, cheerleaders have been responsible for several defining moments in my life. Okay, yes, that might be true for a lot of guys, one way or another, but not the way I mean it. Sure, when I was first discovering my "special purpose", it was no doubt cheerleaders that aided that discovery, just like most men my age. Watching the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders on a Sunday afternoon made us feel "funny". But, really, there's nothing that unusual about that.

No, I meant something else, starting in high school. When I arrived at this big, different, scary place called High School, there were a lot of new faces. One in particular caught my immediate attention: Shelly. Blonde, blue-eyed and like no one I'd ever met. I wasn't quite brave enough to actually talk to her, right away, but I started paying attention to everything around her and what people said about her. A pattern that continues to this day. That pesky, old marketing research again. Half of making a sale, after all, is knowing your target. What do they want? What do they need? Find out the answers to those questions and the sales presentation becomes dramatically easier. So, I discovered a key piece of information about her. She had chronic back problems, stemming from a car accident, which had her in constant pain. My response to that was to study up on accupressure. Like accupuncture, but using one's hands instead of needles. I learned all about meridians and nerve centers and massage and manipulation. Physical manipulation, that is. The other kind was something I learned later.
My opportunity to put this knowlege to use came in gym class. In our co-ed track and field unit. Turns out running really hurt Shelly's back, but she was very competitive and couldn't not give her all, even in gym class. After one sprint she ran right off the track and dropped on the grass and didn't move. I was the first person who both caught it and offered to help. To this day, I have no idea why she had faith in me when I told her that I could make it feel better if she trusted me. But, I did relieve the pain, at least momentarily, and well enough that I could help her to her feet and into the gym. Suddenly, I was every geek's hero in that class. No one else had gotten that close to her, physically. Lesson learned? Knowledge really is power.

The next lesson that Shelly taught me was a little more complicated. And, hey, let's get those minds out of the gutter again, okay? By our Sophomore year, it was obvious, to me, that I was definately not Shelly's "type". (Hey, sometimes, I'm a little slow. So sue me!) But, it was still nice to have a gorgeous cheerleader smile and say hello to me in the hall, so, I kept it at that level. Lusting after Admiring her from afar, as it were. In any case, I heard that her father was ill and that she was a good Catholic girl, so I got her a nice religous greeting card with a message about hanging in and that sort of thing. She thanked me and seemed genuinely touched. But, the lesson came later.
Shortly after that, as I was sitting in English class, the guy who sat next to me asked if I knew someone named Dan Marsch. I said I knew who he was, though I didn't know him personally, and asked why he wanted to know.
"Oh, because he said he was going to kill you." Ah, pardon me? You see, Dan and Shelly were dating. Dan was a classic "jock". Varsity football and wrestling. He was almost literally built like a gorilla. No neck to speak of, shoulders as broad as he was tall, and arms that seemed longer than his legs. Add a protruding brow-ridge and a lantern jaw and you had not only Dan but proof of evolution and the missing link all in one. Well, it seems that he and Shelly had been having troubles. Sadly, he blamed me for them, apparently because Shelly had mentioned me in flattering terms. I can only assume it had something to do with the card. In any case, after that startling news in class, I went to my locker and noticed three dents in it about waist high. After a moment's thought, I put my fist up to them and, sure enough, the dents just about matched my knuckles. Dan had left his somewhat angry mark.
So, in a bit of a panic, I went to the library and researched martial arts. In retrospect, of course, it was foolish to think that would help, but, still, I had to do something to protect myself. Among other things, I read up on aikido, which is an almost purely defensive martial art. Developed by a remarkable Japanese man named Morihei Ueshiba, it uses the attacker's strength, speed and force against him by way of leverage, redirection and pressure points. An aikido master in action is a truly beautiful thing to see. I also read up on pressure points and nerve clusters, focusing on a particular book: Self-Defense Nerve Centers and Pressure Points for Karate, Jujitsu and Atemi-Waza. A book which I still own. In essence, I learned all sorts of dirty tricks which built on my accupressure knowlege. I'd hate to think what would have happened to me had I tried to actually use them on this ape, but, they've been usefull elsewhere in life.
Oddly, what saved me was Shelly herself. She apparently got wind of what was going on and threatend this neanderthal with never speaking to him again if she ever found out that he'd laid a hand on me. So, I was saved by a cheerleader. Lesson learned? There's more than one kind of leverage and love or desire is the most effective kind. Also, it made me cautious, though not cautious enough, about what I said to who and how. Like ripples of water on a pond from a thrown stone, everthing I do or say carries out into the world, often in ways I can't anticipate.

The third time I brushed up against a life-changing cheerleader, it was someone other than Shelly. A nice Jewish girl named Liane Feldstien. She was everything that I never thought would be part of my world. Wealthy, refined, almost snobbish, and, of coure, beautiful. Everything a nice goyim boy like me could want. Naturally, she didn't know who I was or that I even existed. Until our Senior year.
I'd taken a creative writing course and my teacher was impressed with my work enough to convince me to get into the Advanced Placement English course. It took some scheduling manuevers and, I think, he even rescheduled a class so that it fit with my other plans for that year. In any case, I ended up one of three guys in a class of 30+. The rest of the class were all the most gorgeous girls in our class and, obviously, no slouches in the thinking department either. The three of us were a little surprised, to be honest, at our luck. It looked like an interesting year ahead. I, at least, wasn't dissapointed.
One of the first things we did was work on poetry review and critique, just like I'd done with this same teacher in creative writing. I had an in. I knew how he thought about this stuff. Remember, knowlege is power. We reviewed a poem that has since become my favorite:

O Western Wind
O western wind, when wilt thou blow,
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

It's a love poem, probably written by a sailor to his lady-love, dreaming about the Western trade winds bringing him home to his sweetheart so they can get their freak on. Yeah, honest, that's it. But, the trick was, he gave us that and some long, flowery monster with hardly any imagry at all. Then, he asked us to pick which was "better" and why. Of course, I knew which was which, because we'd done the same exercise in that other class. All the girls sided with the long, super-sugary piece. I gave the "right" answer, much to the amusement of my teacher. Suddenly, these girls who'd been in AP English for three years already, started to see me differently. Not quite a blue-collar scholar, but, compared to most of them, close enough.
Interestingly, Liane was not only in that AP English course with me, but also in PhysEd. We did a number of "odd" things that year in PhysEd, including fencing and archery, both of which are good sports for me. And, I got cross-ways with a much larger guy during some flag football, which ended up with me putting him in a hammer-lock face down in the dirt without thinking about it. (Hey, the guy just kept slamming into me harder than was required for a Senior year gym class! I got tired of it, and, well... At least I stopped before I hurt him.) So, she saw all that. The quiet, geeky guy who had a deeper side to him. Who had a few surprises, even for her. On the last day of gym class, she told me, in a startling moment of intimacy, that she was glad she got to know me that year. And, that she regretted not getting to know me better, sooner, because I was "pretty cool after all".
It was later that I learned the lesson, though. Ten years later, actually. At our reunion. I was there with my girlfriend, who later became my ex-wife, and I was showing the future ex-Mrs. Hoffman something in one of the yearbooks. My picture, most likely. It was a funny picture. I was quite the geek, even then, and never have taken good pictures. And, Liane was suddenly at my side, calling me by name, and joking with me about being careful with her yearbook. In retrospect, I think she may have actually been flirting with me. I'm afraid that I was so surprised that I gaped at her like a fish, but it taught me something. The lesson? Who I am really is good enough and impressive enough. I made a real impression on this girl, who I always thought of as out of my league, just by being genuine. Of course, I couldn't do that until I'd given up on her and removed her from the category of "possibilities", but still... Still... Years later, my ex-wife still resented the fact that I found that flattering. But, I did and it was. That cheerleader taught me that it's not always about looks, or flash, or money, or any of that other stuff that our consumer culture tells us is what counts. And, to be honest, it's still a boost to my self-esteem when I remember that series of events.

So, you see? Cheerleaders have been an important part of my development, in more ways than one, you dirty birdies. And, they've caused me, directly or indirectly, to pick up an amazing array of skills and interests and knowlege. Oh, and about that "high-explosives" referrence? Well, when the statute of limitations runs out, maybe we'll talk about that again.
Until then, keep this Advice from your Uncle Jim in mind: You never know who might teach you what or how, so, be respectful to everyone you meet and interact with, since they might end up being your teacher one day.

Or, what's with all the polls?
So, I'm skimming through e-mail the other day and in the middle of a note about something totally unrelated, a buddy asks why I'm doing marketing research on my blog.
Hunh? I think. Marketing research? Then, it hits me that he's talking about my latest poll. He reminded me that, hey, it's my blog and I can write whatever I want. I don't have to do market research on what my readers want on my own blog. Oddly, it never even occurred to me that I was doing that. Admittedly, I did feel a shift in my demographic from professional, male geeks toward something more, er, feminine and not quite as geeky, so I guess that triggered my need for feedback and research.
See, not only do I have a degree in Marketing, but I was raised by a life-long salesman and marketer. Dad drummed those things right into me before I even got to college. "Monitor progress toward goals" and "Be sure to ask the right questions" and "Set measurable goals" were all things he tried to teach me. Not just about business, but life. So, market research is part of who I am. It's what I do. Kind of an odd thing for a geek to know, I suppose. Of course, I know a lot of things that are odd, even for geeks. For instance, when I remember to listen to my own inner voice, I can size people up pretty quickly and accurately. Good trait for a therapist, or a salesman.
But, I don't think I have the right personality to make a good salesman. I'm not anywhere near outgoing enough to make that my bread-and-butter. I'm far too quiet. Honestly? I think I would have made a good priest. Yes, even with my dubious background, I would have made a decent priest. Not a monk, but priest. Sadly, I was raised Methodist by Baptists, so that option wasn't really right for me. And, frankly, I never trusted our ministers, so that option is out, too. But remember, before every priest took his vows, he was a regular guy. Even a priest has a past. Oh, and, I can work a room, too. Some of my friends know what my stand-up would be like. They've heard me do ten or fifteen minutes just on my ex-wife and, mostly, they were rolling. I get that from Dad, too. He could tell off-color jokes at a funeral and get away with it, not to mention those crucifixion jokes he used to tell at Easter.

But, I digress. So, I can't help the marketing research. It's just one of the crazy things that make me who I am, like being double-jointed or knowing about knife-throwing or being obsessed with language and the written word. Just another mostly harmless quirk. As long as I remember not take it too seriously.
Now, about those tattoo stories... Should we start with "How Uncle Jim Got His First Tattoo"? Or is that too much like one of Kipling's Just So Stories? Or, would my faithful readers be more interested in the finger cutting ritual of the yakuza? You know, there's a trick to that...

Or, Uncle Jim takes on a boarder.
That's so much classier than claiming to be a slumlord, don't you think? Of course, with the state my house is in, it might be closer to the truth! Anyway, I just thought I'd update my gentle readers with the knowledge that "Doc" moved in today. It's going to be a bit while we rearrange everything, but, I think it will be good once we're settled. Hilda is getting used to the idea of having someone else in the house, which is good. My poor, brown girl has been so anti-socialized from her time in the clutches of the Harpy that she's still a little skittish around strangers. (And, trust me, kids, few are stranger that "Doc"! Just kidding, Doc, just kidding.)
Also, Doc brought me clove cigarettes. Now, this might horrify some of you, but, yes, I've been smoking a bit. Just one cigarette per day and two on the weekends, but, still... I've been under a lot of stress this year and, well, it's the holidays and... Okay, here's the deal. I was jonesing for a smoke some time back and, when I told my head-shrink about it, his response was, "Well, it's not as bad as some of the things you've done. Other than the health aspect, of course." Sheesh! Well, with that kind of encouragement, I lit up again. And quit for a couple of days. And, lit up again. This time, I promise, it's just through Christmas and, after my current batch runs out, I'll stop. Again. (Oh, yeah, like anyone reading this blog really cares that much, right? I mean, it's not like my mother reads this. Whatever.) Sometime I'll have to explain more about why this time of year tends to inspire me to smoke. Until then, I'll just remind you that I am Mr. Bad Example. But, what I thought was funny about the clove cigarette thing was that "my people" were taking care of me.
Never ceases to amaze me how folks come out of the woodwork to give me things I need or want or whatever. I'm like the Geek Godfather. My favorite phrase is "Yeah, I think I know a guy." I'm told you used to hear that on the South Side a lot, back when my Dad was a kid. Regardless, my people always come through for me, no matter how bizarre the request. Sure, sometimes it's a close call, but, still they always come through. Always. It's almost enough to make me believe in guardian angels. Almost.

Well, enough update. While Doc settles in some, I'm off to see a The Chronicles of Narnia with another friend. And, with that, I'll leave you with a quote. As a "prize" for guessing who said it, I'll vote your way to whoever comes up with it first. (Except for you, Doc. You're too damn smart for your own good!) Good luck!
"In every real man a child is hidden that wants to play."

Oh, wow, I could have used this in college!
Last week, I was talking about whisky, but this week, it's beer. Or, something rather like it. You see, some genius at Nestle has invented, and patented, coffee-based beer. Ah, the joy of beer with caffeine and a hint of coffee taste. According to the article, the drink "pours and foams like beer, but smells of strong coffee and packs a concentrated caffeine kick." So, you can get that double buzz from both the suds and the juice, as it were. A little "hair of the dog that bit you". Wowzer, I could have used this the morning after a buddy and I split five pitchers of beer between the two of us, in just under four hours. Lord, I get woozy just thinking about that one.
Say, I wonder how this beer-coffee goes with cold pizza?

Wherein we learn that everything is relative.
So, last week a church, I don't see anyone I know right off the bat and plop down at the end of a row. I'm not sitting long enough to get even a couple of sips of coffee before I'm bouncing back up to say hello to K. I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks and, since I know she's started seeing someone new, I've avoided calling. New relationships are fragile and delicate creatures that tend to burst like soap-bubbles under the pressure of opposite-sex friendships, so I thought descretion should be the better part of valour and all that. Regardless of all that, K looked more lovely than usual, which I told her after recieving a very chaste hug hello. We exchange a little prayer team gossip (yes, it does exist!) and, while we're catching up a bit, Mr. New Guy careens by to touch her and call her some pet name. Hmm, I thought, marking territory. Boy's already in trouble. But, I stay focused on the conversation and don't stare off after Mr. New Guy. I do, however, confirm without being blatant, that he was, in fact her new beau. Enter J, stage left.
"Uh, do you mind if we move up a couple of rows?" J asks.
"No, not at all," I respond, smiling because I know why he wants to move.
"I just felt like we were hanging out in the middle of everything"
"Sure, dude. No problem."
"Well, and, uh, I could see K with R and, well, uh, it was, weird."
"Buddy, you don't need to explain, I knew why we were moving. It's cool."
We both laugh a bit and, I throw in a concilliatory, "I'm not too impressed with her new guy."
"Oh? You mean R?"
"Yeah, I guess. I mean, he just seems so weak-chinned and, well, bland."
"Oh, no, he's not at all! He has his own company and does..." Well, from the description, he does basically what I do, but he owns a server farm and pimps out web-hosting space.
"Hmm, well, he still seems pretty bland to me," I said and shrugged.
"Oh, no, really, he's not," J said and then, after a dramatic pause, adds, "He has a sordid past." I could only gape at J, who knows about 99% of my dirty laundry, at least in general terms.
"Dude, who do you think you're talking to? 'Sordid past'? I only know two or three guys who have a past more sordid than mine!" I went on to name two guys who we both knew, one of whom has a story about being arrested in a foreign country, drunk and naked on a hill-side. Yeah, that's pretty sordid, and, yes, I have a couple of tales that come close to that, but no, we won't be reading about them here.

I guess my point is, J had forgotten about a lot of that stuff from my past. I don't talk about it, so he doesn't think about it, but I sure can't forget it. Jeez, I won't even go into the story about how I met my ex-wife! But, see, J is an accountant who lives a very nice, well regulated life. In fact, that's why I like him. So much of my life seems so chaotic and unpredictable that it's nice to have someone more solid and well grounded around. My friends, these days, are my anchors to reality. They're the handle I grab onto when my life starts to spin out of control. Though, that hasn't been happening a lot lately, for which I am very grateful.
I'm trying not to regret that past, but see how it can help me. That craziness is what makes me so easy to talk to, for instance. I mean, after some of the things I've seen and done, what's left that could shock me? And, no, that's not an invitation to try. I've inspired my father to get tattooed, for pity's sake! What can top that? Well, a lot, actually. But, again, that's just not stuff I'm going to commit to print in any format.
Maybe I should go back to school and get my degree in Psychology. Lord knows, I understand every kind of crazy there is, many from the inside. But, I'm better now. In fact, as I write this, I'm negotiating the sale of some paraphernalia left over from that strange, twisted life I led in the shadows. I look at that gear and try to remember who I was when I did those things. Four years ago and it seems so far away. And, yes, there's a part of me that's tempted to go back. But, after escaping Hell once, I don't dare tempt fate again. The scars are small and healing well. I'm far from whole, but, as the saying goes, I'm getting better.
Trust me, after where I've been, there's no where to go, but up.
Oh, and just a little Advice from your Uncle Jim, if it seems like a bad idea, there's probably a reason, but just plain fear isn't reason enough.

A primer from Patrick Norton.
Yes, that's right, Patrick Norton of TechTV and The Screen Savers fame. Pat's written a little article in his blog over at Extreme Tech about switching to Linux for "free". I put "free" in quotes like that because, frankly, nothing is free. There are some things that just don't work or don't work as well in Linux as they do in Windows. And, there are programs that simply don't run under Linux. Oh, sure, you can try to use an emulator or whatever to make it happen, but I've never, ever really trusted those suckers. Especially not with my financial data. To me, that's what will "kill" Windows, a Linux-version of Quicken.
Anyway, Pat has a good overview of the pros and cons of switching to Linux and it's worth taking a look.

Well, that is what blogging is all about, no?
I've actually had this book, Writing Personal Essays: How to Shape Your Life Experiences for the Page, sitting on my shelf for more than a year and am just finally getting around to reading it. I've been reading so many insightful, thought-provoking, gut-wrenching, velvety, and just really well written blogs, not to mention the ones that sound and feel so familiar, that I've been inspired to improve my own writing, especially on this blog. Well, perhaps "shamed" is a better description.
A friend of mine recently asked, essentially, "Dude, what's up with the Mr. Sensitive posts?" Frankly, I have no idea. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on the holidays. Blame it on my birthday which is circling like a giant, black vulture. I don't know, maybe it's just that I held back so much for so long because of who I was with or life circumstances or whatever that it got all backed up and now it's pouring out because there's no where else for it to go. Maybe it's the repressed exhibitionist in me sneaking out. Hell, it might even be that my friend who's a month or two out of a year long engagement has a date but I can only seem to meet interesting girls on the Internet, but I'm always "nice guy" material, not "wow, he's hot" material, and never will be. Ick, that sounds so bad when I put it in black and white.

This all comes back to that old question, "Why do you blog?"
Honestly? What's behind the thoughtful posts lately? You really want to know? What else? Girls. Why else have I done anything in my life, worthwhile or not. It's always in relation to those marvelous, mysterious, fascinating and infuriating members of the fairer sex. Which is a misnomer, really, since I've never known a one of them to play fair. Always batting their eyes and making my hands all sweaty or my heart skip a beat. Sadly, the thing I miss in this particular medium is hearing their voices and seeing the expressions on their face. I can watch a woman's lips move and not even hear what she's saying after a bit. All that matters is seeing the magic of those delicate lips and teeth and tounge move in harmony. And, while some guys might be "leg men" or whatever, for me, it was always the eyes. And, the ears, freakishly. Something about a delicate, pink, shell-like ear that always makes me want to tell stories. And, there's the change. I have a more feminine audience and, suddenly, I find myself wanting to explain, to justify, to persuade. All those things and more.
But, of course, the classic melancholy of a writer kicks in and I'm sure that none of them are really reading this or would really listen to me in person. Who would want to listen to my foolishness? I tell myself. With all the truth and honesty in those blogs I linked to up above, who would want to spend their time sifting through my verbosity to find the tiniest grain of truth that even I forgot was there?
In the end, that's all I want. It's all I've ever wanted. Someone to listen to me. Someone to hear.
I saw a movie with Jennifer Connelly in it this weekend. She was laying on some lucky actor's chest, playing with his sweater and looking all wistful while he was saying something. Her pale green eyes were all but translucent as she said her line. Of course, I was so busy watching her mouth move that I have no idea what she was saying. It hurt so bad that I had to get up and leave the room. How could I have misjudged my ex-wife and my life so badly that I actually married someone who didn't understand that was all I wanted? Even after I told her? And, now, there are days that I feel like that will never happen. I think, sometimes, that's the way it should be. That I'm just meant to be alone. Worse, I'm getting used to the idea.
And, now that this little essay has gotten a little too personal, so I'm going to go have a drink. A strong drink

Know them and defend them.
With a whole lot of help from the Electronic Frontier Foundation, of course. The EFF has a relatively new campaign to both raise awareness of blogger's legal rights and to help carve some out for them. Not many people realize that there are some liability issues with blogs and what's written there. Folks use their blogs in a number of ways, but some of them might result in charges of libel, among other things. And, of course, there are the famous cases of people being fired for blogging about work. Well, the EFF has long been an electronic watch-dog group, keeping tabs on our eroding freedoms online and, of course, trying to stem that flow. They're good folks with a good cause and it's worth looking into.
You can sign up for a "badge" for your blog to help raise awareness at this link.

Support Bloggers Rights!

This is not what I intended to write.
Really, it's not, though I'd imagine my ex-wife will think I planned it just for her. I didn't, but, then, she always was a paranoid narcissist. And, I know I've been writing about her a lot lately, all I can say is that I hope it's because I feel detached enough from her that I can let that part of my past go and out. Anyway, a recent post on another blog sort of hit me where I live, though not for the reasons one might think. You see, my ex-wife left me twice. The last time, thankfully, for good, but the first time was years ago, before she was my wife.
I was living in Chicago at the time, in a suburb named Mount Prospect. She and I had been involved, in the Bibilcal sense, for a little over a year. She'd left her second husband, though not divorced him, and was lonely. I had obligations to my Masonic Lodge that predated her by several years. In fact, I was in position for a fairly rare opportunity to lead the Lodge, as Master, for a year at a very young age. She, however, wanted me to drop everything and move down to Texas for her. Obviously, being who I am, I told her I couldn't do that and, if what we had meant anything, she could wait another year. After all, I figured it would be for a lifetime once I got there. What happened next should have been a red flag to me.
She started getting extra friendly with a guy from work. She and her daughter went to the beach with him and his daughter. They ate lunch together and more. It didn't take long for the bells and whistles to go off for me. I asked her to stop seeing him and she gave me the old line about needing to get out and have friends. Friends, sure, but this guy was after a whole lot more than that and I told her so. She told me that I was just being controlling and jealous. That escalated until, finally, I was given the boot because I just was holding on "too tightly" and being "too controlling and jealous". Before we were done, I told her exactly what he was after and how he'd get it. I knew because, in college, I'd seen or tried to do the same thing.
Fast forward about six weeks. I've become the Master of my Lodge and I'm already swamped with work. Pile on all the changes that were going on at my job, which made me the head network and support "go to" guy and I hardly had time to eat, much less check phone messages or e-mail. One Saturday night, I go over to my parents to eat and do laundry, as I often did. Since I was single and had nothing better to do, I stayed later than I intended and was too tired to check e-mail when I got home. So, I let it go until the morning. I don't know how many e-mails I had from my ex-wife, but, let's just say, more than one. And, since this was back in the days when everyone still used modems, when I got done checking e-mail, I had phone messages waiting for me. Again, more than one. More than one tear-soaked, blubbering, snot-bubble-blowing, barely coherent phone message, begging me to take her back. Oh, the litany of how I'd been right and how she'd been wrong was long and flowery and moving. And, like the fool I was, I took her back.
Later, I found out she'd left this "prize" because he'd been with prostitutes, was a self-confessed pedophile and had allegedly forced himself on her sexually. I often wonder if she'd have come back to me if he'd been less messed up. Would it have been such a mistake on her part? Or, would I have been, as I am to her now, Satan incarnate. See, the irony is, not long after she was promising to love me forever and do anything to make the relationship work, she was also telling me that she wasn't comfortable with seeing me right away, either. She was wrong, she claimed, but she had to put limits and restrictions on our relationship so that it was "safe" for her. Yeah, that was red flag number two.
But, no, I still turned a blind eye to that and we met in San Francisco during the Folsom Street Fair to "make up". And, so we did. Now, flash forward to this time last year, when that all played out again, the only way it could have. Only this time, if she comes back, I'm calling the police to have her removed from my property.

I try not to think too much about what my life would be like if I'd only held firm back in the Summer of '97 . But, I do still wonder sometimes. Would I be happier than I am? Would I be better off? Well, maybe I would and maybe not. I'd like to say that I'm older and wiser now, but, mainly, I'm just older and not wise at all. I get like that at this time of year. The new year is approaching and so is my birthday. I find myself looking at where I am and how I got here. It's never where I thought I'd be and the path is never the one I would have chosen, but I keep plodding on.
What else is there to do?

I have something fun coming here.
Well, at least, it's fun to me. Apparently, some folks aren't looking forward to New Year's Eve. Now, I can imagine a number of reasons this might be true. Thankfully, I have The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Holidays which has helpful advice for such unhappy events. If nothing else, it gave me a chuckle. Well, as we get closer to ringing in the new year, I will reveal a little new year's web app that I stayed up late coding last night and was inspired by this book, and the dear, sweet thing who's so grumpy about the oh, so happy holidays. Besides, having something to look forward to may just improve their mood.
Or, not, either way, I take no responsibility!