Diary of a Network Geek

Oh, so many things on my mind and so many ways to get into trouble talking about them.

To look at me, you’d never know that I’m the repository of so many secrets. I know so many things I shouldn’t that, at times, I think I’ll split at the seams and they’ll come rushing out in a sticky mess that will leave stains on the carpet. But, I dare not talk about them, or write about there here. If I tell Secret X, then Ms. Y will never confide in me again. If Secret Z comes out, then Mr. A will be so depressed there’s no telling what he might do. Worse yet, if I share about the thing with the people in the place who are dealing with that technical issue… Well, let’s just say it would be bad. Honestly, I never knew I was so trustworthy until I sat down last night to write about all the things on my mind that I simply shouldn’t talk about in public and started listing the secrets people have entrusted to me.

Worse still are the other things I more voluntarily keep inside though. Nothing the NSA would care about, mind, but important to me. To share those thoughts and feelings, I would have to make myself vulnerable to you, my few, faithful readers, and that, history has proven, is not the best idea. Besides, not all my readers are friendly. Some of them are down right mean and nasty, though those few seem to have finally learned that I won’t post their comments. I pretty well know what they think and, well, y’all know what they say about opinions…

I know, rumor has it that you blog-readers like reading about fear, uncertainty and doubt, but it’s gotten hard for me to share that. A little honesty is good, but, too much apparently leads to disaster on a Hindenburg-like scale. In the past, my experience being vulnerable with people has, to put it mildly, not worked out well at all. My therapist tells me that my sarcasm is a defense mechanism that keeps me from having to be in that oh, so delicate position of being vulnerable. Yet, I recognize that I must open myself to that potential pain, again and again, if I am to ever really connect with another human being. And, I really do want that, at least once before I die. Yes, I question that, in spite of having been married, that I’ve ever really been connected in a significant way with anyone, outside of family, anyway. Family is a different kind of connection, more fundamental, easier, more natural. The trick, I guess, is doing it in the right measure. Give them enough to let them in on the secret of me, but not so much that they get that “sticky-floor-in-a-cheap-movie-theater” feel about me.
That is a surprisingly tough balancing act.

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"I'm always amazed that people take what I say seriously. I don't even take what I am seriously."
   --David Bowie

I did something very new and outside my tiny, little comfort zone last night. I went to see a movie alone. I have never, ever done this before and the mere thought of it terrified me so much I had to tell several people I was going to do it so that they’d ask later to make sure I had. I’m not sure why it was so very frightening to me, but, well, it was. But, I did it anyway.

See, it’s like this… Movies, for me, are social events. They are things I go to with people, to share in the social aspect of the whole movie theater experience. It’s an event, even if a small one. A social occasion. A safe way to interact with my not so safe fellow man, or, if I’m lucky, fellow woman. But, LK (aka Ms. NewGal) was busy burning the candle at both ends and I didn’t really want to see more of my friends than I did this weekend and, well, a guy I’ve always admired for his social poise used to go to movies by himself, so… So, I screwed up my courage and went and did it. And had a very enjoyable time.

The movie itself was quite good, even though this is the third or fourth time it’s been done. Very exciting and filled with the very best special effects. The CG work on the ship rolling over alone is worth the $8.50 admission. Then, the whole upside-down ship with explosions and fire and madness and mayhem… Well, it’s very tense and very suspenseful and I loved it. If LK had been with me, she would have squeezed my arm so hard I think she’d have broken it. (She doesn’t do quite so well with suspensefull movies, by her own admission.) I mean, it had me squirming in my seat more than once and I could more or less see how things were going to work out the whole way through.
The best thing, though, was that there was no Shelly Winters character. She was replaced with a single, South American hottie. Horay for Hollywood!

No, not relationships with professionals.

At least, not exactlly. I’ve been thinking about this lately for a couple of reasons.
First, I read too many blogs. A lot of those blogs are written by people of the female persuasion, and I’ve noticed a trend. In all the cases that the blogger bemoans their problems with relationships, the problem seems to be a simple lack of courtesy on the part of the paramour.
Second, I was thinking about a couple of relationships I had up North, before I moved down here to Houston. In two of those, I was involved with someone from work. The one that went horribly awry did so because of a simple lack of response by my coworker.
And, finally, Match.com. Is it so hard to send one of the pre-scripted, “No Thanks” e-mails? I mean, you don’t even have to write anything, just point and click, but, instead, people seem to think that it’s okay to just ignore the whole thing. To me, that seems unimaginably rude. Someone’s gone out of their way to make contact and all they in response is… Nothing? I just can’t do that.

All of these things lead me to a simple conclusion. I expect as much courtesy as you would give a coworker. Does that seem like so much to ask? All I want in a relationship is to be treated with the same respect and attention that one would accord a collegue. If I call, you should call back or at least respond in some way telling me why that was impossible. E-mails should be returned in a reasonable amount of time, even if just to say that a more detailed response is forthcoming. I mean, look, if I’ve bought you dinner the least you can do is show a little appreciation and respect. (And, no, McDonalds does NOT count as dinner. Think Cavatore or Back Door Sushi, at least.)

Is that asking too much? That a date or potential partner respond with a minimum of professional courtesy? I certainly don’t think that’s too much to ask. Or, too much to give, frankly. Apparently, though, that is more than some people are willing to give. Ms. NewGal is always apologizing to me for talking about her hopes and fears and, well, for being “needy”. Mind, I don’t think she’s any needier than anyone else in the world, but she seems to think that she is and, therefore, must somehow make up for it. And, I have to admit, I really don’t do anything very special for her, just listen. Oh, I tell her stuff that I hope will help, but I think she mainly knows that I’m talking through my hat. So, in the end, all I can do is listen and be respectful. And, really, isn’t that all any of us really want? Someone who listens and respects us?

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"Character may be manifested in the great moments, but it is made in the small ones."
   --Phillips Brooks

This is something that has been on my mind for quite some time now.

I recently read an interesting article at Slate via MSN.com about how keeping a blog kept one hopeful writer from actually writing for publication. Now, I wish I could say that I’ve been spending my time away from the blog these days being super productive and writing the Great American Novel, but, sadly, that’s just not so. Still, I have wondered what I might have produced when I was blogging so much, both here and at Fantasist.net, if I’d written fiction instead of all the “wonderful”, self-involved, navel-gazing posts. Oh, sure, I suppose that really is what blogging is about, mostly, but, still, I always seem more productive when I’m not focused on myself, but on someone, or something, else instead.

In that respect, at least, I have been a little productive, since I’ve been helping LK (aka Ms. NewGal) with her business, Pink Poodle Gourmet. Not much help, yet, but as I get free from working on my divorce lawyer‘s website, I’ll have more time for her business. I still need to get a better picture of him up, but, mostly, the front-end is done. Oh, I may have a couple hours here and there to do some refining work on it, but, mostly, it’s all backend stuff now. Of course, that’s part of what I’ll be doing for LK, but there’s more there, too, thanks to my Marketing degree. Still, it’s not writing, is it? So, even when I’m not wasting time at work blogging or staying up into the wee hours to get my all too personal point-of-view out to the public, I manage to avoid writing.

My therapist questioned my devotion to my blog over my writing early on in our sessions. He seemed to think that my writing was good enough that I should get paid for it. Of course, he might have been trying to pump me up and give me a reason to not off myself, but, well, it didn’t feel like that was what he was doing, either then or now. In fact, I’ve had at least one professional writer give me some encouragement, though, honestly, she’s so nice I’m not sure I can trust her to give me an honest opinion about my terrible writing style. Still, she is a pro and cute, so, I’ll take what I can get! And, I was good enough, once, to get accepted by a periodical that, sadly, went out of business before I could ever be published. Not quite the Great American Novel, but, still, it would have been a start.

I’ve tried to start blogs as writing projects, much like the author of the Slate article, and met with similar results. Though, that is how the blog at Fantasist.net got started, among other things. I’ve tried to start with maps of various kinds, too. I’ve even tried to start by creating fantasy languages, but all the attempts ended with the same result. I get bogged down in the details and requirements of these artificial starting points, these manufactured muses that simply serve as excuses for why I “can’t” write quite yet. So many reasons not to write, many that seem so plausible to the outside world, but, in the end, all just excuses for spiritual cowardice.

I’d love to boldly declare that now, right now as of this very moment, I was going to change and start writing with publication in mind, but I know myself too well. I know that I’ll hold on to those excuses for a little bit longer, until I feel safe again. Until I feel a little more comfortable and secure, then, when life settles down a bit more, I’ll sit down and write. You know, after I’m comfortable with the fact that I’ll never be published in my lifetime, but don’t care because the writing is all that matters. Because, you know what? The writing is the only thing that matters.

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"Hating people is like burning down your house to get rid of a rat."
   --Harry Emerson Fosdick

Wow.
I cannot believe that I wrote nothing of any real value at all last week. I mean, I know I was busy and tired and all that, but, wow. I had no idea how little time I’d been spending on the blog.
Of course, I’m in the middle of two website redesign projects and I’m trying to help Ms. NewGal with her business and get one of my personal creative projects started before the end of the year, not to mention get some reading in, but, still… I just had no idea how full of busy, little details my life had gotten. And, too, I think my blog was getting stale, so maybe a little bit of slow time on the old thing is appropriate. After all, when I first started writing this blog, back before everyone had a blog and they were “cool” or “hot” or “scoop” or whatever the kids call it these days, I wrote about twice a MONTH, so I guess I shouldn’t be quite so hard on myself. I’ve dumped a lot of junk here in the past six years or so. A break now and then wouldn’t kill me. And, of course, I’ll still do my Friday Fun link, no matter what.
Don’t worry, angst and misery aren’t the only things I have to write about. It’s just that they give me the time to write. All that other stuff, the fun stuff, takes up so much time that, well, I haven’t any left over to write about all the fun I’m having!
Hey, it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. 😉

Oh, the joys of home-ownership!
So, Saturday night Ms. NewGal and I get home after being out to church, dinner and my favorite bookstore to find water running from somewhere under Doc’s car. Now, I don’t mean a little trickle, but rather a fairly steady stream of water, as if the hose had been left on. And, in fact, that’s what I figured had happened. I walk over to turn off the hose, figuring that Doc had watered up front and just not quite turned the handle quite all the way closed. That’s when I saw the water shooting out of the wall. Yes, gushing right out of the brick around the pipe where it goes into the house. Keep in mind this is about 11:00PM, I’m tired and have no idea how much of this water is gushing into the space between the exterior brick and the interior wall. In short, I was not very happy.

Luckily, my girl was able to talk sense to me and remind me that there’s a reason I escrow home-owner’s insurance. So, we filled some buckets of water to use for flushing over night, just in case, and turned the water off at a handy valve that was in the line just before the leak. The next morning, I searched the Internet and she searched the Yellow Pages to find a plumber with “cheap” emergency rates who would come out on a weekend. She found Mr. Rooter, who I would have assumed was a tree-root specialist. Luckily, not only are they a full-service plumber, but they have multiple locations in Houston and don’t charge special rates for the weekend! I was absolutely shocked! I can’t remember the last time I heard about a plumber, electrician or anyone else like that who didn’t charge extra for weekend work.
The dispatcher got me on the list for that same day between 11:00am and 2:00pm, which was another miracle to me. Just before 2:00pm, Melvin, the plumbing “technician” showed up at my house to give me my estimate. Tall, thin and polite, Melvin was neatly dressed in a Mr. Rooter uniform and was quick with his slightly gap-toothed smile. He took a quick look and warned me that they didn’t replace brick, which he’d have to remove to get the work done. He did promise, however, to remove only as much brick as absolutely necessary to do the repair. His initial estimate was just under $500. I was so relieved, I almost cried. That’s less than my deductible on my home-owner’s insurance and about a third of what I was afraid it would cost to have someone out on a Sunday to get this fixed.

An hour later, Melvin was giving me an update on the status of my problem. He’d removed a single brick to get a better look at where the break had occurred. Again, luckily, it didn’t look like there was any water damage inside the house. The leak had happened inside the mortar and been forced out from that point. In fact, when I put my hand inside the small hole, it was bone dry. Someone “upstairs” was watching out for me again! (No, I don’t mean Doc, but the Big Guy.) So, at this point, Melvin had to go get some additional parts to make the connection like it was, only not leaking, which means a trip to Home Depot since the plumbing supply houses are all closed. It also meant an additional $240, which bumped my total to $700. Ouch! Still, it had to be done, so I sent him off to get what he needs. While I waited, though, Melvin bypassed the shut-off by the house to give me water so I could run the dishwasher, take a shower or just enjoy how civilized flush toilets really make me feel.

When he got back, I asked him what he thought caused the leak. He showed me the short piece of galvanized pipe he’d had to cut out and pointed out the crack in the threads. It was his opinion that something had to hit that pipe pretty hard to have made the crack. So, I’m not sure when it happened, but, most likely, someone tagged that valve earlier in the week and it just got worse over time until it finally popped out through the mortar. Sadly, at this point, there’s not really any way to know for sure who did it, so, I just have to eat the cost of all this.
Now, here’s where Melvin got to try out his salesmanship on me. He offered me a deal. I could take the $240 hit for the extra parts, or I could get the Mr. Rooter “Membership”, which gives me 15% off all work they do and annual sewer drain inspections and annual hot water heater drainage for the next five years. In exchange, he would apply the extra fees for the plumbing fixtures to the price of the membership, which was a wash. So, in essence, I got a five year 15% discount on plumbing work, which was already reasonable, and annual service and inspection for nothing. Not a bad deal, was it?
Melvin was done by about 5:00pm and getting my Amex number. He wore little booties into the house, so as not to track imaginary brick dust on my filthy, dog-hair-covered carpet. But, what amazed me was that his uniform hardly had a spot on it. Not even much dust on his navy work pants. The guy was good. Pretty damn fast, too, all things considered.

So, in short, I’ve never been happier to pay $700 I didn’t have to do a plumbing repair. After all, I could have had an entire wall come down or part of the ceiling or any of a number of terrible things. A guy I talked to later said that he had a plumbing problem in his attic once that had he and his wife out of the house for three months while they gutted it. So, yeah, it could have been a whole lot worse.
Oh, and I patched the brick myself. That was about another $20, or so, to get the trowel and the mortar patch from Home Depot. Not the most professional job, but quite sturdy this morning when I left for work. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, or read this blog, but I’ve actually done some of that kind of work before at my parent’s house. Oddly, this was something I learned from my father who repaired a front porch step. But, at the time, he’d never done it before. We figured it out together, he and I. And, I never thought it’d be a favorite childhood memory, but, well, as I was working that trowel last night, I thought of him and that day and smiled. I actually finished the job on the phone with him and my mother.
I’m pretty sure that was pride I heard in his voice when I reminded him of that day and told him that I’d learned enough to do this repair myself. And, that I’d had this potentially giant problem and had handled it without calling for help, or advice, or money.
I guess I’m growing up.

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"A friend of mine told me once that they don't lock you up for being crazy, only for acting crazy."

Well, I survived my trip to the sweaty, stinky armpit of the South.

The flight over was fairly uneventful, though it did start out with an ill omen. At the airport there was a helicopter that had a collapsed landing strut that had caused some fairly severe damage to the whirlybird, including bending the blades on the main rotor. Very bad and very expensive. Little turbulence on the flight over in spite of warnings about bad weather. Though, I have to admit, I’d have been more comfortable if my pilot hadn’t been taking short naps along the way. I know we were on autopilot and all, but the idea of crashing over those swamps in East Texas and Louisiana just are not my idea of a good time.

The thing that hit me when we got to New Orleans was the damage still from Katrina. We drove for almost three miles from the little airport where we landed before we started to get to intersections that had working stop lights. Most of the houses that I saw were either empty, or had blue tarps over the roof as an attempt at some temporary repair. I did see some FEMA trailers, but most of them were in a big parking lot where they were totally useless. Apparently, that’s the latest outward sign of a bureaucracy gone terribly wrong. The thing that really got me though was the messages spray painted on the abandoned homes and buildings. Most of it was in some sort of rescue-worker code, but on one house the message was clear: 1 pony DOA, 1 dog DOA.

I spent the entire day Thursday watching data copy. Yep, about as exciting as watching paint dry or grass grow, but people keep interrupting any reading or writing you might be doing to ask what’s going on with the server. (“Uh, the same thing that’s going on when you asked the last fifteen times, you slack-jawed Luddite.”) Then, right when everyone starts to scatter near the end of the day, the data finishes and I can actually start doing real work. A whole hour’s worth of real work before, you guessed it, I copy data back to the new server from the backup drive. Woo. Yea. Oh, the exciting life of a sysadmin on the road.
But, I kept reminding people that I had no rental car and needed a ride to the hotel and/or restaurant, hoping that they wouldn’t abandon me. It went about like this:
“Um, you know, I still don’t have a rental car or anything so, I’ll need a ride to the hotel, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, you’re not leaving yet, right?”
“Yeah, hold on a minute.”
“Ah, so, since I don’t have a rental car are you going to be driving me?”
“Wait, I’ve got something better than a rental car for you!”
“Better?”
“I’ve got the shop truck for you!”
“Ummm…”
“Of course, you’ll have to put gas in it. It’s on ‘E’.”
“Right. Great. Thanks?”

So, yes, I drove the shop pickup truck that they use to make deliveries and, yes, I filled it up. Thankfully, I grew up in the greater Chicagoland area and only had to stare down one guy who looked like he was going to beg for money at the ratty, little gas station I stopped at in the trashed-out neighborhood where the Holiday Inn I was booked in was sadly located. Now, keep in mind, I used to work in the hotel industry. I never worked in Housekeeping, as is evidenced by the current state my house is in, but I did learn what a hotel room is supposed to look like in great detail. This particular Holiday Inn did not meet Hyatt Hotel’s standards. In fact, it didn’t even have the faintest idea what that standard might possibly resemble. Sadly, it was still not the worst place I’d ever spent the night while on the road. After all, the sheets were clean, there was an extra roll of toilet paper, and no used band-aids on the floor. Yes, it can, in fact, get that bad. I did, however, have to plug in every electrical appliance and light. I only had to kill a single cockroach, though, so it all works out. Besides, it was the only room available anywhere close to that part of town.

The next morning, I got down to the nitty-gritty of actually moving the PCs and users to the new server. It went like clockwork. Well, after I got the first few problems worked out and everyone finally had the right security rights. But, freakishly, considering all the things that have gone wrong in the past on these little junkets, I was done by lunchtime. So, I just had to hang around until my plane left at 8:30PM. At least, I managed to slip out for my favorite Southernism, the oyster po’ boy. After that it was just killing time cleaning up little detail things like verifying the backup scheme and updating the anti-virus files, until it was time for the crawfish boil. Now, you might not think that a damn, Yankee carpet-bagger like myself knows what to do with a mess o’ mud bugs, but, surprise, I do. Though, I didn’t eat as many as locals, I did know to suck the head. By then it was getting on toward 6:00pm and I was itching to get to the airport and make sure I had a seat on the plane home. I rode back with the most back-country, redneck sounding guy you ever want to try and listen to, but he was really very bright and, in his own Southern-fried way, quite articulate. In fact, it was everything I could do to keep from imitating his swamp drawl after a bit.

So, I got to the airport, and home, early. My girl got me from the airport and we drove to the far ends of the Earth to get my car from the West Houston Airport where it was not only safe and sound, but looked like it had been washed! Apparently, those stories I’d heard about torrential downpours in Houston while I was away were not exaggerated. By the time we made it back to my house, it was about 11:30PM and Doc had gone to bed, but my Hilda was quite glad to see me. Either that, or she’s learned that Ms. NewGal always brings yummy dog treats with her when she comes.
Oh, while I was away, I also managed to get some reading in, so I finally finished A Better Way to Live and started a trashy novel called Seppuku. I suppose I’ll try to review those when I finally get caught up!
(Oh, and by the way, the boss said I could put down Ms. NewGal’s milage on my expense report, so she’ll get a little something more than the pleasure of my company, which is all she claimed she wanted when she volunteered. Gotta’ love it!)

Looks like I’m hitting the road again. Damn.
You know, mostly, if everything is arranged all nice and all, I like traveling. I especially like traveling on someone else’s dime. But, I hate having to hit the road for business at the last minute. This time, I’ll be swapping out a Windows 2000 server, including a data copy, at a remote location in far less time and with far less notice than I’d like. The sad thing is, I’m getting used to that with this job. How does that phrase go? “I’ve done so much with so little for so long that I’m now qualified to do anything with nothing.” Hmm, maybe I should add that to my resume under “qualifications” or “Skill set”. And, I was just telling Ms. NewGal tonight on the phone that I’ve been making the impossible probable and the improbable common place for more years than I can remember. It’s not too hard with Windows, since any moron can handle a point-and-click interface then call himself a Director of IT, claiming that he can manage servers. But, I’ve done it with Windows, Netware and Linux, with a little Solaris and even VMS thrown in for flavor. And mostly at remote sites where things often go wrong. Very, very wrong.

As further evidence that I’ve been doing this too long, when I pulled my toiletry kit out from under the sink, it was already stocked with almost empty containers of every thing I use on a regular basis. Enough after shave for a week, a couple of good gargles of mouthwash, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, the last bit of deodorant. I even had shampoo and conditioner in there from the last place I stayed at, just in case! And packing my clothes took all of fifteen minutes, too. I normally plan for one extra day, plus any special circumstances, so, I have three days worth in there, just in case. It’s going to take me longer to pack my toolkit and carry on bag than anything else. And that’s only because I have to slim down in case I have to fly back on a commercial flight. My boss is flying me over, which is actually sort of nice, but there are thunderstorms expected for Friday afternoon, so I may be flying back on a commercial flight. That means time wasted in an airport. In fact, an airport I spent the night in once. The part about all this that sucks, though, is having to go back to the little podunk airport to get my car when I do finally get back into town. So, I’ll be dragging my sorry, tired butt from either Hobby or Bush Intercontinental over to, basically, Clay Road and Highway 6. Yeah, the opposite side of town. Just so I can drive back to my house, which I will essentially pass on the way to get my car. The only upside there is that Ms.NewGal volunteered to pick me up and drive me to my car. What a sweetie! Of course, it does get her closer to me faster, but she claims she didn’t even think of that.
Thankfully, Hilda has a keeper for the next couple of days. And, in case Doc has to work late, I’ve asked one of the guys from work I trust to come let her out at lunch on Thursday and Friday. Hopefully, she’ll go out and not make a mess at all. Not that she ever has since she was a pup. At least, not unless you count the times she was being ignored while I was at the office during the prelude to my divorce. Oddly, she’s not had a problem since she’s been back. Imagine that! Must have been the company.

So, now, it’s off to queue up the coffee and the Friday Fun post. If I get the chance, I’ll moderate comments, but, I might not until Saturday morning, so, please, be patient.
It’s going to be a Hell of a trip, so pray for me!

If you have dogs, you have got to see this!
You may have seen what you think of as fancy dog cookies in PetSmart. You know, the ones that are shaped like bones, but have frosting on them. But, I am here to tell you these are low rent compared to what the nice people at Pink Poodle Gourmet and Design have. I mean, go look at these things and you’ll see. They look almost too good to give to your dog. (Sorry, Hilda.) They’re better looking, and tasting, than a lot of cookies made for people. And, yes, before you get all wierded out by the fact that I ate dog cookies, they are made from all human-edible ingredients. They’re also quite tasty. At least, all the ones I’ve tried personally are, but I haven’t risked any liver flavored ones yet. They do sell from the website, but, you might want to find a local supplier so you don’t have to deal with shipping. (You can sniff them out at their webpage.)

Okay, okay, you caught me. This is actually a shameless plug for the darling woman that I’ve been seeing. This amazing lady has run her own business for more than two years and paid all her bills with it. Obviously, she works very, very hard at her business and her product really is amazing. I mean, I understand the rudiments of making a cookie, dog cookies even, but what she does… Well, it’s the difference between me building with Lincoln Logs and her building 30 storey sky scrapers. Really, I cannot urge you enough to go check out her work: Pink Poodle Gourmet and Design And, no, this is not a bribe to get more pie. Though, it’d be well worth it. Her pie is delicious!

“…the Spanish Inquisition!” Not sure that’s the best way to begin, but…

I suppose it is the most delicate irony that today is the day that, in 1663, Galileo was put on trial for heresy for suggesting that the Earth revolved around the Sun, and not vice versa. In 1835, Galileo’s Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems was finally taken off the Vatican’s list of banned books. But it wasn’t until 1992 that the Catholic Church formally admitted that Galileo was right. Hopefully, it won’t take me as long to admit when I’m wrong and should answer the right questions. You know, the ones that are asked, not the ones I’m afraid might be asked.

I have no idea how we got onto it last night, but the subject of Ms. NewGal staying over at my place on a “school night” came up. As I have a schedule in the morning and a routine that I really hate to have disrupted, I wasn’t so hot on the idea. Sure, I should be more flexible, but, well, I have so few things at my job that are regular and stable and routine that I have to build in my own routine so that I feel secure. Maybe it’s juvenile or whatever, but, hey, it works for me. I guess the way the question was asked punched some buttons for me because, suddenly, I felt that I was being asked to describe my Five Year Plan for our relationship and my life. Now, understand, I know that’s not what she was asking, but, damn if that’s not what I heard. Sadly, my reaction was less than stellar.

I gave the big sigh and the eye-roll a real workout on that couch. Ms. NewGal fled to the kitchen to cut her pie and clean up her heavenly manicotti and Ceasar salad. Yes, that’s the third pie in two weeks. Another apple pie that’s just as beautiful as the first. That pushed another button that she hadn’t found yet. I knew someone else who used to run away when she’d hit a soft spot. That never ended well. Thankfully, that’s not what Ms. NewGal was upto at all. She just felt insecure. Yeah, can you imagine? Felt as though she’d crossed a boundry and was pulling back to a safe distance. A safe distance for me, not her. When I finally figured that out last night, I melted. I just about disolved into salty puddle, but, instead, I held her. Or let her hold me. Or, maybe, a little of both. I honestly can’t remember the last time a woman was worried about violating my personal boundries. Really. For that matter, I can’t remember the last time a woman baked me an apple pie, not to mention two. (Actually, I can. It was college and my sister, but that’s another story for another post.)

But, here’s the thing. I read these blogs by women saying that they don’t want to seem “needy” or who want normal feed-back or who just want to get out with someone special more often. Or, as K-Dog wrote, “Need to have need and to be needy – how reluctantly we wish this to be said of us! Yet we pay the highest compliment
when we say of a poet, “It is a need for him to write.”“I mean, it seems like so little to ask, doesn’t it? So, if I get the sense that Ms. NewGal is looking for that, I do my best to give it to her. It’s the least I can do for her, after all. I mean, dinner and three pies in two weeks? Who am I that she should lavish that kind of attention on me? Well, I may not have a good answer for that, but, I can tell you what I’m not. I’m not the jackass that would have bailed on her for asking questions that, while perfectly reasonable, made me uncomfortable. I’m not the bottom-feeder that would use someone he met on the Internet for his own personal gratification. Oh, make no mistake, gentle readers, I have been that guy. Oh, yes, I have. But, even an old dog like me can learn new tricks.

New tricks, like “honesty” and “consideration” and “gratitude”. They seem like such little things, like so little to ask of me. I feel like I cheat her, giving just that. Like I should have something else to give. So, when I feel like I’m in thumb-screws and the hot irons are being put to my feet, I’ll try to remember that it’s just my “stuff” that makes me feel that way and answer the questions, simply, honestly, with consideration and try to be grateful that she cares enough to ask.

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a reputation for subtlety."
   --Issac Asimov