Well, what a surprise. As I imagined, I couldn't keep myself hidden for long. She has tracked me down like a oddly rendered beagle hunting errant truffles. I had originally set the journal to not show up on web searches. This had the unfortunate side effect of preventing any of my posts from showing on the front "New posts" page, meaning that no one was directed to read my stuff. Given that I had intended this page to be secret from my wife, but not from everyone else (If I wanted something just for myself, I'd just talk to myself. It's faster and simpler), I foolishly stopped hiding from search engines. She pounced immediately, quickly directing an acidic spelling correction my way over IM.

The salad days are over. That bright morning period where I wrote brilliant prose yet had no readers. Ah, how it fades from my memory alrady.

Oh well, I detest salad. Bring on the meat and potatos!

In other news, I've received word that some have found my mathematical rant a little difficult to understand. I have decided to reform the whole argument into helpful grandfatherly advice:

The number three? Hate it. Hate it deep down inside your soul on everything but a religious level. Eschew (This means "Masticate" in Spanish) all threes . Three twinkies to an economy pack? Walk on the other side of the aisle. Walk on the other side of the isle if you can spare the distance. Complain loudly to the manager. Find something that must be divisible into thirds? (or sixths, or twelphs, or..) Threaten violence on the manufacturer and the manager of the establishment. Rant and rave. Foam at the mouth a little if you can. Don't let them get away with calling YOU a fool. Show them who's the boss, and let Tony Danza say it for you!

It will make my life all the easier..