Friday, August 27, 2010

Got Wood?

I invited a woman to go to lunch with me. A date of all things. She accepted and in an email back to me wrote, “So, guess what? I ran into a tree last night [while running]. I look like a total retard with a big scratch on my forehead.”

My response is below:

You ran into a tree? You have a giant scratch and now you’re retarded?

Hm…

I’m now rethinking this whole “lunch/relationship with D.” thing now. Maybe I don’t want to be seen in public with a retarded scratchy faced monster after all. True, I don’t really have anything else to do tomorrow, but having people stare at me and wonder what’s so wrong with me that I’d stoop so low as to be seen with the likes of what you’ve become, a severely wounded and disfigured mental deficient who thinks she can just bowl her way through a forest with zero concern for the surrounding flora. Did you even stop to look and see how the tree was doing after you stomped all over it, heartless thug that you are? No, I bet you just picked yourself up and kept running, leaving that poor traumatized and broken twig of a tree to fend for itself in the cold, hard night.

Plus, if you have open wounds on your face, I’m not sure I want to date you at all until they heal. Are they oozing? With super stinky pus coming out? Yucksville. I’m not down for that, babe. Like I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m a very shallow person and am only interested in you because you’re stunningly sexy and super pleasant to look at. If that’s not the case anymore, I’d like to wait and see if there’s any permanent scarring. Let’s hold off on lunch for now, OK? Please send me an UN-RETOUCHED head shot in a couple of weeks and we’ll see where we are, agreed? Go ahead and have a professional take the photo, but I’m a graphics professional as well, and I’ll know if there’s been any Photoshop trickery, so don’t try and be clever and think you’ll fool me. Though I probably have little to fear in that regard since now that you’re a “total retard,” cleverness probably isn’t your strong suit.

In the meantime, I’ve contacted the National Arbor Preservation Society (NAPS), about what happened between you and the tree. Some investigators from the NAPS home office in Tillamook, Oregon should show up shortly to ask you some questions. Answer truthfully and express sincere regret and they may let you off with just a warning. Say the wrong thing or mention even one word about your penchant for wood burning stoves and there’s no telling what may happen. You could end up getting the “splinter treatment” and honey, trust me on this, you do not want that.

OK, while I was writing this I see that you’ve sent me a blurry shot of the despair that is now your face. While the low resolution of your crappy phone camera helps to hide the destruction, it’s obvious that not only do you need extended and multiple rounds of a procedures by a world class team of plastic surgeons, but it’s probably best to turn to prayer to help with devastation of your face. I shudder to imagine what that poor tree looks like now. I can only hope for your sake that the NAPS people are in a good mood when they get to you.

Such a shame… You were so pretty, too.

Best of luck to you in the future!

—jon

Jon scribbled this mess on 08/27/10 at 11:47 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Friday, July 16, 2010

Dating is Hard

I was supposed to have a second date with a woman tonight. (Yes, I’ve decided to start dating again, even though the marriage ended what seemed like mere milliseconds ago. There are reasons. They are long winded and boring.) Anyway. She called me this morning and essentially broke up with me. “You’re a great guy, you’re hilarious and you make me laugh my ass off, but I don’t think the dating thing is going to work out. Sorry.”

There’s a whole funny story right there, but not the one I’m going to tell.

The other “funny” part about it is that last night I was at the grocery store, just getting the usual staples of my life (i.e., cereal, Diet Coke and mild sedatives) and I started thinking about this date I was to have tonight. Suddenly I thought, “Wait, she kind of invited herself over to my place, didn’t she? Hmm. I guess it’s possible something might happen.” (Her plan was to meet me at my place, eat some food she’d bring and then we’d go do the date thing (a gallery stroll)). Obviously, because her car would be at my place, not only would we be starting the date at my place, but it would also end at my place as well. MAYBE THERE’S A MESSAGE IN THERE I SHOULD PAY ATTENTION TO.

Following that logic to its usual climax (sadly, pun intended), I suddenly realized RIGHT THERE IN THE PRODUCE SECTION OF THE AVENUES SMITH’S ON E STREET, that there was a possibility that I might have sex at some point during this date (or some variant of it, I guess… whatever it is that people do these days, how the hell do I know?) (You may now have a mental image of me naked, AND I APOLOGIZE PROFUSELY FOR THAT.)

Not wanting to be like an unprepared teenager on prom night, I went ahead and purchased a box of condoms. (Yes, I’ve been “fixed,” but there are a metric ton of “genitalia falling off” diseases out there, right?) So I’m standing in front of the display rack of prophylactics and KY Jelly (side note: KY Warming… WTF?) and thinking to myself, “this is probably not going to happen. It’s only the second date, after all. This is probably just my reptile brain and hyper male imagination running amuck. This is the epitome of wishful thinking being carried into an actual failed deed.” But. Being unprepared would be dumb, especially given that I’m now standing in front of the stupid things. And if not with this woman, then “Please Baby Jesus, MAYBE WITH SOME OTHER WOMAN AT SOME POINT IN THE FUTURE.” So I grabbed a box and shoved it under my bag of bulk vanilla flavored granola. Plus, I’d been standing in front of the display thinking it all through for a good long while at that point, and lingering in front of the condom display and stroking your beard while deep in thought is a sure fire way to get yourself banned from a grocery store for good.

Now I own a whole box of twelve condoms that will likely expire before I ever get a chance to use them.

So there’s that little tidbit of humiliation to add to the stack o’ stuff.

Oh! I know! I’ll put one in my wallet so it makes that tell tale “O” shape in the leather over time. THAT’S STILL A THING, RIGHT? All the cool guys have those ring shapes in their wallets, right?

Oh god… I’ve started uncontrollably weeping again… How do I make the weeping stop?

Though, I do have to say, “Self checkout, FTW!” when buying condoms.

BEST. INVENTION. EVER.

Jon scribbled this mess on 07/16/10 at 01:36 PM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Urgle

I know, this is astonishingly long.

Executive Summary (TL;DR): Some details about my impending divorce and basically all I’m ever going to say about it.

On Friday, May 28, 2010, my wife of 20+ years told me she’d like to be done being married to me. For reasons I’ll get to in a moment, I wasn’t shocked to the core of my being, but it did catch me completely off guard as I didn’t expect when I finished out that week ahead of a long Memorial Day weekend that I’d be living in a hotel for three days and looking at apartments on Monday. Yeah, I was stunned, shocked and greatly saddened. (Side note: there is no conversation I’ve ever had with any woman that started, “Yes, let’s go for a walk. We need to talk.” that has ever ended well or will ever end well for me. There’s never been a happy ending at the end of any conversation that starts out like that as far as I can tell.)

People have asked me, “Jon, did you know this was going to happen?” (perhaps the subtext here is, “Are you just one of those dumb male types that doesn’t pay attention to any of the important details (like whether or not your wife is happy) that are swirling around him?”

Short answer: Nope
Longer answer: We had some issues about seven years ago and were separated then. Separated twice between 2002 and 2004 as a matter of fact. If you’re keeping count, our youngest daughter Ellis is seven years old now and yes, we got separated and then found out she was pregnant. My life at the time was essentially a rejected soap opera script. (That’s an even longer bloggy post, folks, and I won’t torture you with that whole saga.) So her telling me, “this isn’t working for me and I’d like to be done” that Friday evening wasn’t totally out of the blue, given our past, but I had zero clue she was about to drop that bomb on me.

People have also asked me, “Did she cheat on you?” and/or the extended dance re-mix, but delicately worded version of that question, “Did you cheat?” (the subtext being, of course, “Just admit you’re a skeevy man-whore who can’t even find his pants, never long keep them on, Jon.”

Short answer: Nope.
Longer answer: I’m about 99.9% sure she didn’t and I know I didn’t. Though I’ve been super sure about stuff before and ended up being insanely incorrect, so you never know. But she says there isn’t anyone else, and for a variety of reasons I absolutely believe her. (Also, if someone could direct me toward where they hold “skeevy man-ho” classes, I’ll be signing up for those as soon as possible. (Fine. Not really. They probably don’t let balding, bitter bearded dudes in those kinds of classes.))

“So what’s the deal, Deal?”

It basically all boils down to one thing: She doesn’t love me anymore. Rather than either continue to fake being happy or hide how unhappy she was, both of which she’d been doing for the past couple years; she decided to be honest with herself (and me) and end it. And I can respect that. Really. There wasn’t anything about me in particular that made her unhappy (I’m pretty easy to live with, though isn’t that the watch word of the high maintenance individual? “No, really, I’m suuuuuper easy to live with! I promise!” when in reality, that person has reached English sports car levels of upkeep.) But she didn’t have those “core” feelings of love/intimacy/emotional connectedness which would lead to true intimacy between us. We got along fine and probably likely will continue to get along. We rarely fought. (Side note, though this is a ginourmous topic in and of itself, I tend to see our lack of fighting as a symptom of just how broken our relationship was. For a variety of reasons neither of us were willing to show any kind of emotional vulnerability. If you get angry about something (justified or not), you have a passion about it. And as a couple we ended up being the equivalent of white bread, water and vanilla ice cream for dinner every night.) We lived our lives in a mass of non predatory self deception which came from both of us about how things really were. I was certainly a willing participant in that bit of self delusion for all those years. But the real thing is this: there isn’t anything I can do or say to make her love me again. (Nerd talk: I’m not in the “sudoers” file of her heart. :-/ ) And when I say intimacy, I mean an emotional connection, not just physical intimacy. In fact, all self modesty aside, for the past few years I think I’ve been a much better person/father/husband in general than I ever was in the past. Though Reha wouldn’t agree with this notion, I have to wonder if on some level she saw how fully committed I was to our relationship; which sat in stark contrast to how she felt and behaved toward me/us. Plus, even though she’s an attorney, she’s an astoundingly honest person (OH, SNAP!), so all this “living a lie” business she’d been doing through the years didn’t sit well with her. Again, I have to respect that as well. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it and having someone you’ve hung out with for 20+ years say straight to your face, “I just don’t love you anymore” is about as fun as puking up a box of nails, but I can wrap my head around the concept of not wanting to go through the empty motions of a marriage reasonably well.

“Have you tried counseling? Maybe that would help?”

Been there, done that. Many therapists over the years have probably put scores of their children through ivy league schools on what we’ve spent on counseling. If anything, I expect to get a call from one of their representatives, complaining that we’re just a bunch of quitters. “Dude, I was this close to paying off my boat! Are you sure you guys want to give up? Maybe just a couple more months?” So, yes, we’ve been down the marriage counseling road already.

In any case, it will all be over very soon, as we aren’t squabbling over our combined knick knacks and we both have the best interests at heart for our throng of children. (We have four: Carrie, 20; Lucas, 16; Jonah, 12; Ellis, 7). She officially filed for divorce last week and since we’d already hammered out the details, I’m not responding/disputing/fighting her divorce complaint which lays out all those details and so a judge will eventually sign her complaint as a bonafide court order in a couple weeks. Probably all be done by July 1. Possibly sooner, depending on how backlogged the court is right now.

It’s funny (not “ha-ha” funny, but weird funny), how surprisingly well I’ve been doing after completely falling apart the Friday she told me. I feel pretty good about things and my usual pessimistic skeptical outlook on life keeps thinking that the other shoe has to drop at some point. I even feel kind of guilty about how decent I feel. Perhaps it’s some flavor of survivor’s guilt. Taking a couple days to do nothing but sit in my underwear and think and weep and moan and scream out my car window on long drives in the mountains did a world of good. I think I got a lot of stuff out of my system the weekend after. I can actually see how this might end up being a great thing in my life. A new beginning and all that. Of course, there will be ups and downs in all of it (holy cliché alert, Batman!), but it’s all going to be OK, I believe. And in the interest of keeping the cliché machine primed, I’m counting on the old adage “time heals all wounds” to be true. At least, it better be true. If it isn’t I’m going to hunt down my 8th grade English teacher and give her a wedgie the likes of which the world has never seen.

Are you angry? Hurt? Upset? Wandering the streets in a fog in your underwear?

Short Answer: No.
Longer answer: Technically, I wasn’t wearing underwear that night I went a-wandering. I roll buck nekkid when I wander the city streets aimlessly. Of course, I’ve had a few moments where I’ve gotten angry or upset, but I have to say, I’m feeling remarkably good for someone at the tail end of a failed marriage and top end of a broken heart. I’m not weepy or mopey. I get up, hang out with the kids as much as possible and generally feel like this isn’t the end of my life. (Ask me how I was during our initial breakup in 2002, for example; the contrast is startling, trust me.) Mostly, I’m upset with myself, for the huge bit of self-deception I allowed myself to indulge in over the years. Certainly I wasn’t all that happy with how things had been, either, but I let myself believe that things were either “OK” or would eventually get better if I just kept at it. So rather than angry, I tend to feel particularly foolish about being a giant sappy fool in love who put himself out there emotionally and it all crumbled into dust. In time I’m sure all the things I’m sad and grumpy about will matter less and less, until they just seem like crap I can’t even believe I ever got myself worked up over. The reality I’m coming to understand is that in the long run, because of the decision she made about our failed marriage, I’ll be much happier, because I also won’t be living a lie. It’s astonishing to me that I can even think that, never long believe it, but there you go. And, though it may not seem possible for me to type what I’m about to say; her deciding finally to be honest with how she feels (or lack of feelings) about me is ultimately worthy of both my respect and admiration. It took an enormous amount of self-reflection and courage for her to come to that conclusion. I do respect her integrity for coming to a conclusion about the reality of our situation. I’m not sure I ever would have “woken up” to the painful reality of how broken we were as a couple. Though my excuse is that I was in love with her something fierce, so I just couldn’t let go of the hope that things might eventually change for the better. People in love do seriously dumb things, like pretend their unfulfilling, shallow, and hollow lives are something other than what they are. It’s also possible I’m not yet that guy who can face reality on reality’s term. Could be that, too.

Here comes the sappy part. It’s a heavily edited bit of a “thank you” note I wrote to my soon to be ex-spouse a few days ago. Turn away if you are prone to nausea.

In the long run, I will be eternally grateful for having spent the last twenty some odd years attached to her. Reha is an amazing person and I feel lucky to have been with her as long as I was. In many ways I am a better man, a better father and just plain a better human being because of her. Possibly, if I’d listened to her more often, I’d be an even better person, but I guess I just have to bear that cross. I know that probably makes me sound a bit like a forlorn sap, but it’s likely true.

Lest anyone judge her harshly (since you will likely only ever get my side of the story), I feel the need to defend her a little bit, even though she essentially ripped out my heart and mercilessly stomped all over it until the pieces were unrecognizable as having ever been heart-y. (Heh. Yeah, I may be biased). Though she’s the one driving the divorce engine, the train wreck of our marriage isn’t her fault either. She spent enormous amounts of energy and time trying re-fall in love with me several times throughout the course of our marriage. I believe she gave it her all and I like to think if she could change how she feels (or, in this case, what she doesn’t feel), she likely would. I end up bearing her no ill will whatsoever. To say she was a trooper during our twenty year stint is possibly the largest understatement I could ever make. I know this life wasn’t the life she would have chosen for herself (don’t get me started on what I moron I was the first couple years), and I’m sorry for all the things I did that didn’t make her life any easier. I wish with all my heart that I could erase the noxious parts, flip a switch and make it all better. Or even just be there and gradually make it all better over time. And not just because I’m selfish moonstruck love idiot and would like to continue to be her spouse if that were possible, but because she’s a person who deserves true happiness in life. I can sincerely say that I hopes she finds it. (Though right now, I’m weak enough and enough of a giant selfish dork that I hope I find true happiness before her! Honesty, whee!)

Finally, I’d like to thank her from the bottom of my heart for being the mother of my children. Holy crap, but we have amazing children. I love them more than I could have ever thought possible. And I have to say, as amazing as they are, they wouldn’t be nearly so delightful and likely become the astounding adults they’ll become if it weren’t for her. She loves our children, probably more than she loves herself; and given that she partially stayed with me all those years because of the children seems to me like prima facie evidence of just how much she cares about them. Though obviously “loving your kids” is technically a part of the job description of a mother, she fits that role so well, so naturally and with such aplomb, that it’s a thing of beauty to behold. Is our marriage a failure? Technically, sure. We’re about to be single again. Some people might see it that way, but the way I see it, we brought four amazing humans into the world. That we have done that means that even though she and I aren’t going to work out in the end, I think we can consider the product of that relationship to be the pinnacle of success.

Thanks for the good times and the bad times, Reha. Of course I wish we’d had more good times, but I think even the bad times were things I needed to have in my life. Am I sad that we won’t have twenty more years to try and make it? Yes. But I don’t regret or think wasted the time I spent with her. On the contrary, I’ll always be grateful to have been with her.

No, you shut up. I’m not crying. Those are tears of joy at all the hot wimmens I’m about to get all up in my bizness.

Wait! Stop snickering! IT COULD HAPPEN! I FOUND A “HOW TO BECOME A SKEEVY MAN-HO” COURSE ON THE INTERNET!

And with that, I start the next chapter in my life, “Bitter Bearded Balding Guy Who Eventually Befriends a Lot of Cats”

Jon scribbled this mess on 06/17/10 at 02:10 PM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Friday, November 06, 2009

Move Your Home Folder Off Your SSD Boot Drive in OS X

Update Nov. 2010 There really isn’t an update, but people keep emailing and asking if this still works. The method described below still works perfectly well. I did it just the other day for a friend and I’ve been running this “external” account set up on my daily beast of a machine for over a year and it’s just dandy. Though the prices I mention below are out of date, which is actually a good thing.

SSD (Solid State Drives) are the future, kids. They are insanely fast, have no mechanical parts to wear out and run cooler than their platter based counterparts. The main problem with SSDs right now is that in order to get a decently sized drive, you have to sell off one or two of your kids just to pay for it.

As of this second, the cheapest 256GB SSD at NewEgg is hovering at around $600. Ouch. Something in the “reasonable” price arena of less than $200 will only fetch you a 64GB drive. Plenty of room for the OS and a load of useful applications, but not a lot of wiggle room for your stuff. Where will you put your giant collection of bagpipe music in iTunes, your scads of text files with truly bad poetry and an iPhoto Library chock full of compromising photos of co-workers? In all likelihood, you won’t be storing much of your data on the thing. You’re going to have to litter your junk around on another drives/volumes. (i.e., your iTunes media, iPhoto, Lightroom, etc.) That’s all well and good and perfectly reasonable, but you have to do a bunch of fiddling within the individual applications to make all that work. (Don’t get started on how persnickety iTunes can be about having its files live on a separate drive.) And you’ll probably customize your Finder sidebar so you’ll have easy access to where you park your files. Well behaved Mac apps expect to plant their “stuff” in the user’s home directory. (Try this: Hit “Open” in any application. The hit Cmd + Shift + D. Where are you? Your Desktop! Where’s your Desktop? Inside your Home folder, silly!)

So while you can work around the speedy, but decidedly cramped quarters of your SSD, what we really want to do is tell the OS that your home folder “lives” on a different drive. After all, 1TB hard drives are way cheap these days, relatively speaking. Plus, you have a MacPro with a zillion SATA bays in it, right? The following instructions tell you how to move your home folder from your spiffy SSD over to less constrained quarters. You’ll still boot off the SSD and run your apps from it, so your computing life will move faster than you ever thought possible, but all those pesky personal bits will be somewhere else.

Step 0): Back up your mojo. Don’t be an idiot, K? This is pretty painless stuff, but make sure you have a working back up of all your files before you dive into this. Pretty please.

Step 1) Create a new account in “System Preferences --> Accounts”

The home folder for this new account will land on the boot volume, which is the expected behavior. Boo. Let’s fix that!

Step 2) Go make a folder on some other volume. Make sure the name of the folder matches the “Account name.” (the lower case username)

Step 3) Fire up the Terminal and issue the following command:

sudo ditto -rsrc /Users/test_account /Volumes/07-Sette-TB/Users_n/test_account/

(This command is basically an über “copy” command. Obviously, your folder structure and account name will be different. The -rsrc” switch tells the “ditto” command to snag resource forks and all that HFS meta-data goodness along with all your precious data. The man page for ditto tells me that this switch is the default behavior since 10.4 so it’s probably not necessary; but I do it anyway, because I’m old skool and I have numerous trust issues which I won’t delve into here.)

Step 4) Now comes the cool part. I’m all aflutter just thinking about it. In the Account Pref Pane, Control + click on the account name. Ooooh baby, you had no idea that was there, huh? Smack that “Advanced Options…” pop up like it was a puppy who peed on a rug that really tied the room together.

You should now choose that folder you created in Step 2 as the location for that account’s Home directory:

Step 5) Reboot. (Since you are the proud owner of an SSD powered machine, this is the quickest step in this whole process. Heh.)

After you’ve rebooted, you can logout of your “normal” account (At the bottom of the Apple menu) and log back in as that new user and shazam on a seesaw, that user’s home folder is somewhere else!

I’ve tested this on Snow Leopard (10.6.1) and it works fine. I suspect these instructions probably work fine for Leopard, too; but I don’t have a Leopard machine handy here at the Deal Family Compound to test. (Update: Jamie emailed me and said me he’d tried it out on 10.5 and it works. He also noted that you should be able to upgrade to 10.6 without any problems (which makes sense to me). Thanks, Jamie!) You’re on your own for 10.4 and earlier. Sorry, and have fun mucking around with NetInfo, you poor dear.

If you’re feeling brave, you could skip creating a brand new account (Step 1) and blast straight to ditto-ing your current account to a new location, changing the Home folder setting in the Accounts Pref Pane and rebooting. Should work perfectly well. Me? I’m a safety nut and like to make sure things work, but I can tell that not only are you a fetchingly attractive specimen of a human being, but you also like to live on the edge. Godspeed, my young Padawan. And! Don’t forget to tell Time Machine to back up both your SSD volume and the drive where you’re parking your files.

You could also go nuts and put your home directory on a removable volume (i.e., a USB or FireWire drive), but I wouldn’t recommend it. Depending on when in the boot process your Mac mounts the removable drive, odd or potentially freaky things could happen. Having said that, I’ve put a Portable Home Directory account on a lowly thumb drive in an Open Directory/Portable Home Directory friendly environment and it’s worked fine. No fuss, no muss. But I can also pull sparkle ponies out of my booty on demand. THAT’S HOW SPECIAL I AM. As with all things, your mileage may vary.

Anyway, just thought I’d share. If anyone needs me, I’ll be back in my hole trying to finish this unholy creation I’ve taken to calling “The Decidedly Mediocre, Taking Forever to Write and Tragically Not So Great American Novel.”

Newegg is currently having a sale on 64GB Kingston drives. That’s what I just picked up. $143.99! Plus a $30 mail in rebate I’ll likely forget to do, because though I have that sparkle pony thing going for me, I’m not actually all that bright.

Good luck and please, for the love of all that is holy in the world, never skip Step 0.

Comments are closed because I borked my blog’s commenting system a couple months ago and haven’t bothered to fix it. (Plus, there’s that whole “not actually bright” thing and I may not posses the necessary skills to fix it.) Feel free to email me if you have something to say. Or be a pal and offer to fix my blog’s code. :-]

Jon scribbled this mess on 11/06/09 at 03:49 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Friday, October 23, 2009

My Wise Investment

Yesterday, one of my many fake Internet friends (Scott Simpson) made an offer on a house:

Being the helpful (and shrewd) sort of person I am, I leapt into action.

I sent him $2 via PayPal.

Scott wrote back to thank me:

You are a true friend. This just might put us over the top.

Best. Paypal. Gag. Ever.

But, like so many things in Scott’s life, he’s wrong about this. I wasn’t making a joke. There’s no gag here. I’m making an investment. Even in this freaky market, real estate is still a solid long term investment strategy. I whipped out my creaky Vic-20 and responded:

If you get the house, I need to tell you that because of my contribution(s) to this endeavor, I will consider certain nails, screws and/or boards located in the house to be my property.

Furthermore, I will feel perfectly justified in visiting my property any time I see fit. Oh, it’s 2:30 in the morning, I’m drunk on peppermint schnapps and in my underwear at your doorstep? It’s cool. Don’t freak out. The doorstep is mine.

I will also reserve the right to collect my property from you any time in the future. Yeah, you want those nails in the joists that hold up the second floor above the kitchen? Those are mine, pal. I OWN THOSE. NOT YOU. And I need them now. Gimme. Be glad you’re a friend and I probably won’t charge you any rental fees for the duration of your use.

Should you sell the place, you must transfer any profits from the sale of my share of the house to me within 30 days.

—jon

So good luck on your house negotiations, Scott! Just remember, you’re planning for both your family’s future and mine.

Jon scribbled this mess on 10/23/09 at 08:49 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Friday, August 27, 2010

Got Wood?

Friday, July 16, 2010

Dating is Hard

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Urgle

Friday, November 06, 2009

Move Your Home Folder Off Your SSD Boot Drive in OS X

Friday, October 23, 2009

My Wise Investment

Proximus

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