When people say relationships take a lot of work, they aren't kidding. Take my wife for example. (I won't say please... Get it? Christ, Henny Youngman would be sad.)

I admit, since I met her, I've long harbored the suspicion that my wife thinks I'm, well, less gifted than her on the intellect side of things. I'm sensitive to it because I come from a family with a long line of matriarchs who run rough-shod over the men. While my mother, grandmothers, etc., would likely say "Rule? With iron-fisted threats of smashing you like a grape? Me? That's not true!"... they are would be lying.

I vowed early on in this relationship, knowing what a strong will Bon has, that I would not be her god damn monkey-boy, that I would standup for my rights, I would express my opinion, and that I would never, ever let her roll the tank-treads of her bad day/cranky attitude/righteous indignation over my back.

Which proves almost unequivocally just how stupid I am.

While I don't want to be the bottom to her top (well, not relationship-wise... get it? Hello? Jesus, are you people even listening?), I also love and crave peace at home. The discomfort and unease that sets in when we're miffed at one other just eats away at me. Especially when I can pinpoint it back to being my fault. For example:

Bon called me today from a dog agility show. Caper didn't have a very good run this morning (he blew the weave pole entry and then decided to go say hi to judge, a big no-no), and Bon was, while not outright angry, perturbed by his performance. Her question of "He's four... when's he going to get a brain?" was one that (Bon would be the first to point out) was quite rhetorical -- just a supportive grunt would have sufficed. She frequently espouses her need for just some support on a topic, even if it's one I vehemently disagree with. We've had the conversation about 50 times. I know it, and it should sink in.

I, in my inverse-of-infinite wisdom, said, "He is a Labrador, you know."

Oopsie. Not what she wanted to hear.

Sometimes it's not what is said between us, so much as it is how we say it. That was definitely the case with the above, since I probably made it sounds like it was some patently obvious observation that any idiot would accept as an excuse. Like, "Duh."

Patience is a virtue we don't partake of much here at case de Griffith, so things are often said off the cuff, without counting to 10, sans any consideration of the phrase's potential effects. Admittedly, even the most innocent of comments are likely to set either of us off into a fury depending upon the initial mood and the lilt of our voice. Did I know the Labrador comment would spark getting hung up on? No. Did I bother to think about how I put it first? Hell, no. It's hard to think one's feet, but necessary.

I could spin this into a metaphor for how the world could do a better job of keeping peace between the borders, but that would be me pulling flowers out of my ass. If the divorce rate is so high, is it any wonder that a born-again president wouldn't be able to get along with Muslims? Men and women raised in the same town can't even agree on where to put towels or hang pictures.

It doesn't help to bring that excess pride into a relationship. Let's face it, eventually, one or both parties is going to be the grass while the other is the lawnmower. But if we -- okay, if I pick my battles and my words more carefully, perhaps there'd be less weed whacking and more fertilization.

My god, that metaphor doesn't work at all. It's actually kinda gross. Sorry. How about this: If I pick my battles and my words more carefully, perhaps I'd spare us all a lot of hard feelings and resentment.

Made the upgrade to Movable Type 2.63 tonight... here's hoping it works. Not sure why I bothered, since 2.11 was working just fine, but I'm a futzer and a tweaker.

UPDATE: Freaking Norton Personal Firewall's been preventing me from posting with Movable Type. Apparently, it's the Pop-Up Ad blocker in the program, which I didn't even think was on. Stupid computers.

I'm the taxman

And you're working for no one but me.

-The Beatles.

I'll tell you right now: if you own a house that will even remotely be worth more money someday than you paid for it, and you think you might sell when you realize how much that is, and you work from home, do not take the home office deduction.

We did, and we have to give the combined mix of the Federal govenment and the state of Massachusetts about three grand. (The kind and benevolent state of New York, however, is giving us a small refund. Of course, we didn't claim the home office here.)

The problem with all this has to do with capital gains and depreciation on the percent of the house claimed as a home office deduction. I don't know the math of it, I just have to write the damn checks. Of course, I should have seen this coming, but we blew through the extra cash we got selling the house in MA, doing things like the new kitchen floor (which we still likely have to sue over to get our measely $1200 in escrow).

Not the worst financial situation ever, to be honest. But it's galling to give the government anything right now, even more than usual.

I haven't whined about this in a while, so why not: Lord Love a Duck, why can't I just write?

Lets face it, if you don't know me, if you don't get it by now, I'll spell it out: even in this time of strife for the country and the world, on a planet with melting ice caps, overloaded garbage dumps, and the Oscar going to statutory-rapists (who get a standing ovation, no less), I'm so obsessed with myself all I can think about is me, me, me. And not in a good way.

I'm focused in all my spare moments -- and if I don't have any spare moments, I make some by not doing something I'm supposed to -- on things I would rather be doing. When I finally give myself the time to take action instead of think about taking action... I freeze.

I'm like the constant wallflower at the school dance with this.

It's tiresome. It's frustrating. It's pissing me off.

I'm starting to think I need medication.

Maybe I should give up on fiction. I could do a book of essays instead. Yes... essays. Collect and refine my screeds and yammerings against the injustices of daily life. That might be okay, except in my daily life the worst atrocities consist of wheat bread (see below) and the occasional dog vomit. On an exciting day, perhaps I eat too much cheese and pay for it later (if you know what I mean).

Am all I cut out for is semi-comedic (and only barely coherent) blog entries? Is this what it's come down too? I used to write short stories for fun! My friends would commission me to draw them pictures! I dreamt of going to art school once! I created an entire universe once, before I could even type! Okay, admittedly, that was for a Dungeons & Dragons campaign (yeah, so, what of it??), but at least it was creative. I used to paint.

Of course, I did a lot of that just to pass through the trauma of puberty, 95% of which was in my head, created for myself as the testosterone started to fire off like Patriot missiles. I think I'm doing a lot of the same self-created suffering these days, but instead of using it as an outlet, I find myself blocked. I stare at a screen, or a piece of paper, or out a window, or at a clock, watching the time I allotted myself pass by with all the drama of watching the elderly race with their walkers.

Artists are supposed to suffer, I truly believe that (better the artists suffer than a lot of other people), but what if you suffer and can't make art? I think then, you're just a schmuck.

I blame some of this on "responsibility." Part of me can't work on anything creative, anything just for myself, that doesn't (in the long run) pay. Life is too expensive. Taxes, bills, payments, etc... how can I justify writing silly stories when they don't bring in any money? It was easier back in college, when it was still just a fantasy world -- all those envelopes with windows on the front seemed years away. I can't step back and just do something for me. The thought of completing a novel and no one outside of my friends and family reading makes me feel empty. I wanna be famous, a star of the screen. No, not really. I'd settle for ending up with a paperback in the bargain bin in a couple of years.

It's not going to happen without me believing in my ability to 1) finish it, 2) polish it so it's not complete feces, 3) sell it for an incredibly low sum just so I can say I did it. I think hurdle number one is the hardest. The rest will probably never happen, but should seem easy compared to this.

So, I'm joining the gym. It's up on the Ithaca College campus, it's a $100 a year and I get a personal trainer in the guise of a health sciences major who's probably going to be spunky and cheerful and have a body with 1% body fat who I will loathe. Unless I got a cute 20-year-old co-ed. Well, I might still hate her after the work out.

Assuming I get in. I filled out the form online to join on Wednesday and as of yesterday my only communication from them was a phone call from a Jennifer who wanted details about my checking off "heart disease" as a family trait.

I don't know why I checked it... I guess I just assumed it, but should have known better, because, silly me, everyone in my family dies of having wet, blackened, destroyed lungs! Emphysema, baby!

I actually keep a cheat sheet culled together from asking my parents over the years of what I've likely inherited from the Griffith and Stephens clans of central New York. With the exception of my mom -- who makes up for it by having the same thing Micheal Jackson claims turned him white -- all my immediate ancestors have had hypertension (as in, blood pressure high enough to make your ears bleed while thinking hard). Every time someone puts a sphygmomanometer on my arm, I clench up a little thinking, "My time has come." I probably outweigh two or three of my grandparents put together (well, especially now that three of them are dead... it's a good way to shed pounds), but I still have an okay BP. Go figure.

I find it somewhat comforting to know exactly what my parents are going to die of. Being 40+ year smokers -- and Camel Regulars for my dad, to boot! -- I figure if they get to go out in a flaming car wreck, they'll be lucky.

I expect to spend a countless hours in the St. James Mercy Hospital cancer center, watching them grow weaker and weaker as the cancer eats them away from the inside; perhaps we'll be able to string their time in bed out to several months if it's just the emphysema destroying their alveoli, one by one, until they suffocated because they betrayed they're own lungs.

This is partly why I felt a need to move back to New York last year. I estimated 10 years tops before their health starts to completely fall apart. My dad wheezes like a broken fireplace stoker now just from minor exertion. Selfish prick that I am, I like to forget that and still have him help with things like tearing out my floor. Mental note to self: No more heavy lifting for Dad.

The whole learning-from-other-people's-health-mistakes thing is something my parents -- who combined have over 65 years of full-time health-care experience -- have stuck their heads in the sand about smoking. So deep they're up to their patellas. But I can't claim moral superiority since I never met an Oreo Cookie or Chocolate Mousse I didn't like. Though at least I'm only killing myself.

So, hopefully the gym folks will look at a family history of emphysema as no big issue and let me in for the coeds to whip into shape. I'm going to need all the strength I can muster in about 10 years.

I absolutely hate wheat bread.

Especially for a tuna fish sandwich.

I spent much of the tradeshow time wallowing in some self-loathing. It happens whenever I'm required to dress up beyond my usual Old Navy loose-fit jeans and polar fleece shirt that insulates me from my basement chill. I'd look at myself in the 1000 foot high mirrors on the wall along the escalators and just grow disgusted. I have someone bizarre ability to look at myself in the mirror head on, whether shaving or brushing my teeth or looking for stray nose hairs to trim, and I think to myself, "Yeah, looking good!" I really do. I'm not prone to worrying about my body. Sure, I sweat just by thinking about being in the sun and my breathing is labored just with a jog down to the mailbox and back, but I don't think about my body -- obviously one that helps push the statistics for the "US Is Filled with Fatties" campaign -- as being radically abnormal.

But looking in those mirrors at the New Orleans convention center, seeing my profile, I wanted to puke. Literally. I was thinking about taking up Bulimia as a hobby. Bulimia has to be better than Anorexia, because I think half the joy of eating is just the mastication. I could never pull off Anorexia anyway -- in my family (both nuclear and extended), if anyone sees me with even a half-full (aren't I optimistic?) plate they'll say "Is something wrong, are you sick?" because I didn't scarf it all down like a ravenous aardvark at a fire-ant mound.

I don't know if they eat fire ants. I just thought it sounded good.

Yeah, so, shut up Griffith, stop whining, do something about it. And I shall. This week and for the rest of time, I am going to devote this blog to a new topic, at least partially: embarassing my self into a slimmer ass. That means you get to hear about my joining the gym (Home: "Guy-m? Oh.... Guy-m!"), maybe Weight Watchers, etc. Which should work great since my entire life centers around sitting still all day long in front of these two monitors. But no one ever said looking at a profile in the mirror was easy. I just wish it wasn't so easy when looking head on.

Is it possible to have jet lag when only moving over one time zone? It certainly feels like it is.

I'm absolutely exhausted. Right down to the core of my big ol' bones. Just whipped. And wiped.

My six day whirlwind "vacation" (during which time I worked four of the six days, rode on five different aero-planes, sat in airports for a combined total of 8 hours, and had to speak on topics on which I'm not an expert to rooms of 120+ people) has ended. I'm home, back in the office, watching as six days of messages and spam stack up in my inbox. If I didn't have a cable modem, this would take until about noon. As it is, it's been a 20 minutes and I've only got 28% of the messages.

I had it all this trip. I saw old and dear friends, made (I hope) a couple of new ones that I'll see and/or work with again, watched movies with my best friend Joe in Florida (including seeing Apollo 13 on an IMAX screen at Kennedy Space Center), met some vendors (most of whom bored me to tears... one so much I felt myself drifting off... when i asked them at the end what (if anything) they said had to do with 802.11 networking, they seemed a bit put off. As if I'm the one who made the meeting with them. Jesus Christ. Does the name of my site, "802.11 Planet" not indicated that maybe, just maybe, I'd have some specific interested in, oh, I dunno, the 802.11 networking aspect of your business? Get out of your ivory tower, schmuck, not everyone covers you just because you're a big shot company.), I had highs and lows of emotion and (ahem) drunkeness (Bourbon Street, it turns out, looks just like it does on TV), and then when it all came down to it in the end, I almost didn't want to come home.

It's perhaps the first time I've traveled for work that I didn't look forward to getting home. Maybe it's living in Ithaca, the SAD (Season Affected Disorder) I constantly seem to have here, or the fact that every time I called home I got to hear about some new disaster:

The snow all melted, but now the backyards a mud pit and my dogs are the wrestlers. My wife's sister is threatening to move to Texas to get away from family (and at this point, I wish they'd move to fucking Iraq). My brother's mother-in-law's dog died (yes, the extended family shit is a bit much, isn't it?).

Oh, and I have to sue a guy in small claims court. Probably. Over the floor in the kitchen and the money that was escrowed back when we closed on the house to help us pay for it. Christ.

Email is at 64% and counting. I can't wait to re-read it all. I hope there's some penis enlargement offerings, I just don't feel I get enough of them.

So, I'm back, got in last night about 1:30 after being on plans for hours. After I heard about the need to sue for the measly (in the long run) $1200, I was so frustrated I called Joe and left him a message from the Pittsburgh airport around 10pm. The gist of it was, "why the hell didn't I stay in Florida?"

The temp shot up to 60 degrees her in Ithaca over the weekend. Great. But my basement office is still 60 without the space heaters on and it's not the 60 that feels warm like outside.

I'm back to square one. In the basement, just me and the dogs all damn day long. Still no life, still no hobby or interest or friends in this burg and it's starting to fucking irk me and piss me off and I could use an accidental overdose of gamma radiation to alter my body chemistry so that when I become angry or enraged, I'd have an excuse to bust some heads or kick a car door or at least randomly pinch people, really hard, and hopefully leave a mark.

So it's been a busy couple of weeks in the basement of Casa de Griffith on the shores of Lake Cayuga. What has gone on?

I'm preparing like a man possessed for a tradeshow. Mind you, I've been to lots of tradeshows in the last decade, but not like this -- I'm a featured speaker in a presentation. What's more, it's on a topic that I'm sure is near and dear to everyone's hearts: Wireless Network Security. This is much like getting zookeepers to talk about urinary tract infections in polar bears: They might have to clean the mess, but they're aren't vets. (How's that for the worst analogy ever?) Still, I'm doing my best to become a mini-expert on the topic and mastering PowerPoint at the same time.

Our kitchen floor, long the bone of contention in our purchase of this house, is finished. When we moved in, the faux-wood floor (laminate) was pathetic shape, with big bubbles in the floor from moisture damage and who knows what else. At the house closing, we forced the seller to set aside $1200 of the money we gave him to get the floor repaired or fixed. There's no fix to it, so we finally, after six months of estimates, waiting, more estimates, and the usual hemming and hawing, got the damn job done. Ceramic tile, baby. It's nice (though we should have picked a darker grout). Now we get to let the lawyers fight about if we get our money or not.

We met with an accountant to get started on our 2002 taxes. You'd think it would be simple... all we did was have 7 months of freelance income, live in two states, sell a house, buy a house, and build up the usual amount of deductions. Well, actually it would be simple, but for the fact that because we sold our house at a profit, we'll get screwed over because we took a home office deduction for the last three years. There's just no way that the government doesn't get theirs. (And we bitch about this, but I still think any Bush tax cut is a dumb idea. I'm a true American, always wishing everyone paid but me.)

As per usual, we spent the entire day before the meeting with the accountant rustling up paperwork that we should have had organized all year. And we're pretty anal-- I hate to see what it's like for people who don't have filing cabinets.

I got a raise at work. Which was nice.

I started volunteering teaching kids HTML and the like at the local science museum. I did not come away fulfilled, but I'm going back for more anyway.

I spent part of my day today trying to call back a telemarketer. The same person has called me two days in a row and hung up on my answering machine or me... but doesn't have caller ID blocked. I keep trying but only get a busy signal or it just rings for hours. I did a Google on the number -- you can do reverse number looks ups now for listed numbers, which is rather scary -- and got his name and address. If he calls again I plan to answer the phone screaming, "Jasin! Is that you? Dude!" Wonder if he'll try to sell me a vacation or some herbal Viagra then...