The programmer only shops when I throw out his clothes.  After his last trip I sorted through all his  dress pants: stains, missing buttons, ragged hems.  In the end, only one pair of pants was left hanging.  Gleefully, I mentioned this yesterday and that therefore, he was going to be pantsless in Vegas (this could be fun for me but probably not great for his professional credibility).

Finally, we shopped, and he found new pants and shirts and I found…shoes.

The programmer:  “You have a shoe fetish.”

Me:  “These espadrilles will be perfect for Vegas!”

“Espa…whats?”

“They’re so cute!” I exclaim.

“You have enough shoes.”

“The red, silver or black ones?”

“The closet is full, we need a bigger closet.”

Let’s pause here for theatrical effect.  In a romantic comedy, this is where time slows down and the music swells to orgasmic volume.  She’s met the man of her dreams, he realizes she’s the love of his life, world peace is achieved and every child gets a puppy that is already house trained.  Cue confetti, bells, whistles, fireworks and heart-bursting sighs.

But forget the I love you’s.  This all happens when the man says “we need a bigger closet”.

Could he get any more perfect?  (big, girly sigh to accompany my starry eyes and goofy smile).

Well, yes, there’s room for improvement.

“Can we?  Can we get a bigger closet?”  My heart’s pounding, I can already picture the mahogany organization system and tufted bench.

“No.  And you don’t need more shoes.”

Trumpets screech.  Violin strings break.  Confetti blows away.  How quickly the ultimate fantasy crumbles.

The programmer was then on the receiving end of the REALLY evil eye.

So, guys, a bit of advice.  Never mention getting a bigger closet unless you’re ACTUALLY getting her a bigger closet.  Otherwise, you’ll be crushing all her hopes and dreams.

It would be like your girl saying she got first-row, fifty yard line Superbowl tickets…and then gave them to your archenemy.

I’m all excited because I’m heading to Las Vegas for the ServerSide Java Symposium.  Okay, so the programmer is attending the conference.  I’ll be attending the hotel pool and Vegas sunshine.  Trips like this are one of the huge bonuses of being married to the programmer.  Obviously I’m biased, what other careers offer fun perks?

Personal Tech Support

Hands-on, 24/7, 365 days a year, always free technical support.  The programmer must have taken one look at me on that long ago spring day and said:

“This girl is going to need me.  I can save countless computers, cellphones, and toasters if I marry her.”

It’s true, I can look at a computer sideways and the Linux kernel collapses, Windows trys to put itself back on the CD to escape, backup batteries burn holes through the carpet (twice), the Crackberry has to have a hard reboot every other day, the television motherboard melted, and the plug fell off the blender.  I am a professional electronics’ assassin.  The programmer is the electronics’ savior.  It’s a match made in heaven.  I break the unbreakable, he figures out how to fix it, writes and article about the issue, and gets paid.

Travel to Exotic Locations

Programmers are globe trotters;  all they have to have is a computer and an occasional internet connection.  No office, no bulky equipment requirements, meetings can be held anywhere, anytime, courtesy of Skype.  However, this doesn’t mean programmers don’t like to get together and drink.  These events are called conferences.  Last year the programmer hit San Francisco, Philadelphia, Reston, Zurich, Rome, and Antwerp all in the name of professional “conferences” (aka beer bonanzas).  Okay, okay, they do a lot of Java and Open Source talking, too.  Regardless of what the programmers do, I get to tag along and soak up the sights or just enjoy a little R & R.  And this year is already filling up: Las Vegas, Chicago, San Francisco, Stockholm…now if only I can get the programmers to conference in say, the Bahamas.

The Ultimate Flex Time

The programmer works from home.  His co-workers are spread around the globe.  This means he’s not tid to the 8 to 5 schedule.  He’s not even locked into Monday through Friday.  This means we can go snowboarding on Friday (when it is cheaper and less crowded) and just work on Saturday instead.  Or we can go to lunch together.  Of course, this also means I’ve stumbled in on a video conference call at midnight and all the other programmers realize I wear crazy bunny pajamas.

Where Your Opinion Always Matters

Sure, programming is about computers and languages, but at its most basic level programming is about problem solving.  Programmers are the ultimate problem solvers, and my programmer, at least, loves to know how other people apporach problems.  So he is always asking my opinions, approaching me with hypothetical situations, or handing me his latest application and asking me to break it.  My opinion, thoughts, and superior technology breaking skills are very much appreciated and, dare I say, respected by the programmer.

For the programmer and I, it’s all about the little things.

We notice the small changes in each other.  The programmer always notices when I get my hair highlighted and paint my toenails.  I immediately hone in on the fact JBoss In Action and Practical RichFaces have been added to the bookshelf in his office.

We also fight about the small things.  Like why does he always have to sniff the dishtowels to see if they’re clean?  Who ate the last piece of chocolate? (guilty as charged).

We don’t stress about the big things.  A house?  Picked that out in a day.  Same with the car and where we got married.  All we really care about is being together even when he’s irrationally suspicious of the laundry detergent, and I ate the last of his chocolate.  Therefore, while I adore Valentine’s Day, I don’t expect some Hollywood production of  romanticism from the programmer.  I’d actually be a little hurt because it would show he wasn’t really thinking about me.  I’m not a girl who wants a dozen roses, a cardboard heart full of bon-bons, and dinner by candlelight on February 14^th.   I’d prefer going on a hike, fresh strawberry shortcake, and a soak in the Jacuzzi with the programmer.  The programmer will want carrot cake, a day on the slopes or at the driving range, and yes, then the Jacuzzi.

Now you think, one of us will be unhappy on the 14^th because we can’t do all this in one day.  Well, we don’t have to because spending quality romantic time together shouldn’t be limited to a holiday and the gifts you share certainly shouldn’t be dictated by what retailers tell you men and women want for Valentine’s Day.  (actually, one of our fave gifts to exchange is promising each other weekends:  i.e. Anya will play golf next weekend with the programmer (despite it being bloody freezing).  The programmer will go hiking when the Trillium bloom.)

So what does your lover really want?

A box of chocolates or gourmet popcorn and a movie?

Dinner at that expensive restaurant or a simple picnic at a park?

Roses or a visit to the local botanical gardens in the spring?

A gift certificate to the spa or a massage from you?

I think showing you love someone  is all about the little things.  The things that show you have listened, that you know their  interests and what will make them truly smile on Valentine’s Day and every other day this year.  As for my programmer, I’ve been emailing him these custom hearts I gimped to show him I love what he does even if I don’t understand everything he talks about (actually I find it kind of sexy, LOL).

So what do you want this Valentine’s day?  Why don’t you slip a little note to your lover and let them know, because, let’s face it, most of us can’t read minds and with our hectic lifestyles sometimes we don’t pick up on the little things all the time.    Trust me, asking in itself will make them happy because it shows you’re thinking about them and considering their wants and needs.

And does anyone really think edible underwear is sexy?

Remember Valentine’s Day when you were in elementary school?  We would race around the room giggling as we delivered cards to each others’ desks.  I’m part of the Garbage Pail Kids era.  The valentines from the boys were gross, but my little heart would pitter-patter when I’d open that little envelope from my crush–even though he’d given cards to everyone.  (BTW, I also cherished my Matt Ratt GBK trading card *sigh* because my crush’s name was Matt, but I really should have taken that card as a sign.)

Thanks to the biggest, baddest GPK site for this memory.

Every year I also get a Valentine simply signed with a ‘?’ – a secret Valentine.  As I got older, I figured out which relative was sending this card, but I still eagerly await its arrival every year.

What’s sad is that I think we outgrow giving valentines.  Pictures, messages, and even cards are now sent electronically.  While I love hearing from friends and family via email, I miss having something to touch (the programmer is not down with smudges on the monitor), being able to trace a signature, catch a hint of perfume,  or sticking a card or note on my fridge so I can see it every morning.  Electronic notes and images evaporate with the click of the mouse.  A paper card from a friend stays on my desk all year.

This year, I didn’t have time to send Christmas cards and it totally bummed me out–sometimes this is the only ‘physical’ contact I have with friends who live around the world.  But why not send Valentine’s Day cards?  Something unexpected that will make them smile and let them know I was thinking about them!

Will you channel your inner kid with me?  Actually, if you have kids, this might be a great way to spend some time with them.  You can sign your valentines while they sign theirs.  Crunched for cash during the current economic fiasco?  Forget the grown-up cards and get your own pack of SpongeBob SquarePants or Spiderman cards.  Hand them out to neighbors, co-workers, and send them to the friends we never have time to call.  Betcha that silly little pink and red square will make your co-workers laugh (and bring back goofy memories) and reconnect you with neighbors and friends.  Best of all, you’ll be spreading a little love.  We all need more love.

Psst…if you email me your address, I’ll send you a Valentine, too! (a (dot) amasova (at) gmail (dot) com)

I try to eat healthy.  I really do.  I’m all about tweaking my diet to counteract the diet soda addiction my sisters say is sending  me to hell.  However, I’m slow to pick up something new that’s usually expensive and a year from now will be denounced as having no benefits.  Foods that are deemed “healthy” sometimes resemble rapidly moving targets.

And sometimes, I’m the target.

Take peanut butter for example.  I decided to try natural peanut butter after learning how it doesn’t have the trans fats, hydrogenated oils and the added sugars of typical peanut butter.  Plus, my local grocery store started carrying the natural kinds in the last few months (remember, I’m lazy, if it isn’t at the grocery store across the street I’m probably not going to bother tracking it down).  I picked up a jar of ‘Naturally More‘.  Not only is it a natural peanut butter but it includes flax seed, another food I’ve read has a lot of benefits from lowering cholesterol, preventing dry eyes, to possibly shrinking tumors.  All bonuses in my book.  At home I popped the lid, already prepared for the oil separation.  What I didn’t realize was that mixing the peanut butter is an intense 15 minute workout.

Or that natural peanut butter ATTACKS.

Mixing this peanut butter is hard, especially when the jar is full.  It’s stratified into three layers: oil, buttery stuff, and lump of coal.  I’d just started working in the bottom layer when the peanut butter retaliated.  It spewed oil all over the front of my T-shirt.  The programmer was highly amused.  (Next time I’m aiming the jar at his laptop.)  Nevertheless, I did eventually stir the peanut butter into submission and it was delicious!  Add a check to my healthy food list.

Next up was a trip to the local vitamin/health food palace.  I’d finally run out of the cheap protein powder I picked up at Target when I first tip-toed into the land of protein shakes.  It was time to up the ante.  I was also in search of the popular flaxseeds, something I hadn’t been able to find at the grocery store.

Why didn’t I know you need a manual to interpret the jargon in the land of vitamins, supplements, and protein?  Is there a degree I need to get before I can buy anything in this store?  I started looking for protein.  Is that the weight management, sports nutrition, or muscle section?  Why are the containers HUGE?  Tell me this jar is  supposed to last a whole year.  Are they giant-sized because they make you a giant?  Overwhelmed by the TWO WALLS of protein choices, I decided tackle the flaxseed instead.  How complicated could a seed be?

Searching for flax, I found the…Cod Liver Oil…a whole shelf of it.  What the hell do you use that for?  I thought it was only to torture children in Disney movies? Even more disturbing, the flax and cod are only separated by a few shelves.  Does this mean they’re related?  And while there are less flax products than protein, they’re still scary with the technical speak.

Seed versus ground versus sprouted versus pill versus oil?

Just lignan or highest lignan?

Nitrogen flushed?

Bioavailability?

There’s a brand called Chia.  As in a Chia pet?  Do I feed this to me, my chinchilla, or my plants?

In the end, I picked the brand with the most jargon on the front.  Very scientific.  So I now have a next generation milled, sprouted flaxseed, a raw food that’s been flushed and is very bioavailable.  This omega-3 containing miracle looks like sandy potting soil and smells like dirt, too.  Are you really sure I’m not supposed to feed this to my violets?

Finally, I could no longer put off the protein choice.  I ignored the ones close to the creatine section, even I know what creatine is and I don’t have any body building tournaments in the near future.  Same went for the jars showcasing men with pecs the size of serving platters in itsy-bitsy teeny-tiny bikini bottoms.  And something called Muscle Milk–sounds like a spa treatment.  After a process of elimination, weeding out premixed drinks, the brand a man with the biggest thighs I’ve ever seen bought, and brands with celebrities or celebrity diets on them, I found myself in the endurance section.  Endurance sounds good.  My goal this year is to run a half-marathon.  I want something that will help me maximize my workouts but not secure me a job with the local circus.  Eventually, I selected a ginormous jar of whey protein.  Where I’m supposed to store it in my tiny kitchen, I’ve yet to solve.

Needless to say, I didn’t realize that there were so many vitamins, supplements, and other weird things that people put in their bodies (a little lightening, anyone?).  How do they know where to start?

It was a warm and sunny afternoon...the perfect time to boink my secretary, become schizophrenic, and then get hit by a bus.

I’m not a religious person–my in-laws say all that higher education (aka the devil) sneakily usurped my faith.  They pray for my re-enlightenment.  What they should really do is make me watch thousands of advertisements.  Sometimes, I swear, a mysterious entity, be it a he, she, or Jabba the Hut, sends me a miraculous eureka message through an advertisement (and sometimes music videos).

Take, for example, a Secret deodorant commercial.

Secret states that their deodorant can give you “sexy, smooth armpits“.  The word sexy nudged me out of a procrastination nap.  Why the hell do I want sexy armpits?  It’s not like women walk around with their arms raised trying to attract men.  Trust me, they’re not looking at your armpits, sweetheart.

Next declaration: “Secret: because you’re hot!“

This makes my eyes roll, reminding me of the swarmy one-liners that would get thrown my way after track practice.  In a moment of stupidity, my oxygen deprived brain would wheeze, “I’m hot“.  Inevitably, I’d get two or three, “why yes, you are“.  (And no, this was no ode to my beauty.  There was one girl to every five guys on the track team.  Skimpy (but ugly) shorts, competition, and the boredom of the country plus exploding teenage hormones equals you know what.)

Despite the icky adolescent memories, the Secret commercial got me thinking about how so many things in our lives have been reduced to commercial-size bites.  One-liners that may sound snappy or cute the first time but are actually hollow and meaningless.

It seems that people have shorter and shorter attention spans (possibly as short as 9 seconds).  Therefore media (and this includes me as a blog and book writer) is all about sucking you in, hooking you, grabbing you–all terminology with violent connotations–as quickly as possible.  In essence, you have to take the reader/watcher against their will, otherwise they’re just going to brainlessly fall for the next attention rapist.

And don’t forget we have to rape our own lives or projects of all depth and complexity before we can sit for five minutes with an agent/investor/loan officer and see if they’re truly interested in our project.  We have to have a pitch, a hook, to snag their initial attention, and it better not be longer than a sentence.

Don’t have a tag line for your blog or company?  You are so screwed.  How are people supposed to “know” what you’re about.  Because god forbid they have to read more than a sentence or listen for more than 5 seconds.

As for book writing, did you know you have to hook a reader with the first sentence?  Yes, you’ve got one sentence to make them decide if they’ll cuddle up with you for 350 pages.  That line better be shocking, titillating, crude, or violent.  Forget painting the scenery or having a poignant insight.  Nope, there had better be a dead body, or bondage, or a psychotic breakdown.  Better yet,  work all three into the opening line.  Of course, a lot of the time this one-liner is taken out of the book’s context, a throw away line, and has nothing to do with the overall scheme of the plot or characters.

Yes, us writers, we’re liars and charlatans, but we’ve been told over and over by agents, editors, other writers, and mass media, that you, the reader/watcher has the attention span of a post-coital fruit-fly.  You’re brain dead, baby, and only the most outrageous stimulus like more inventive sex or imminent death is going to revive your attention.

Authors can’t even describe their books as books.  Authors have to snag an agent or editor with a high concept.  Think high concept is fancy?  Literary?  Complicated?  Hell, no.  It’s all about Hollywood–the only topic most Americans seem able to relate to anymore.  These are high concept book pitches:

“My book is Sex in the City meets Halloween 84.”

“It’s Terminator meets Harry Met Sally.”

“The Little Mermaid combined with Queen of the Damned!”

Basically, throw together a wildly popular show or movie with something weird.  Because the public wants the same but different.  Unique but recognizable.  Heavens, we can’t present you with something brand spanking new!  We’d have to work to sell it because there would be no trite one-liner to throw at you that you’d understand.

(Steve Kaire asserts that the high concept pitch has been misunderstood for decades, and it is not about using movies.  However, if we’ve gotten it wrong for decades I doubt we’re going to change now.  And he still says that the material should be traditional (but original!) and have mass market appeal.  *Sigh*  I am so screwed.)

So do we have the attention span of fruit flys?  Will we no longer be able to watch movies longer than a YouTube flick?  Will books disappear because they’re too long?  Does only sex and death catch people’s interest these days?  Do you want sexy armpits?

P.S.  You might think I’ve got a serious case of sour grapes, but actually I’m a hypocrite (which is probably worse).  I’ve thrown my own one-liners (which typically involve crudity, dead bodies and one psychotic break) at agents and editors and been asked for a full manuscript every time.  My problem is I’m too scaredy-cat to let the books leave my sweaty little hands–maybe I need to put some Secret on my palms.

It is a sad time.  Mad Asthmatic (aka Emma), a fellow blogger, who I ”met’ just a few months ago has passed away from a heart attack.  I will miss her UK humor and phrases, her insight, her beautiful posts, and the good advice she always gave me.  Her last post, No Regrets, is, sadly, even more poignant now.

I will miss you Mad, and I promise to try and live every day with no regrets.

(Condolences are being left at asthma.org).

I became particularly fond of lambic beers.

The programmer went to Belgium for the beer (and chocolate, but we’ve covered that).  Technically, his employer thinks he went to Belgium for the Devoxx conference, but that was just a clever misdirect.  He only went to the conference to ask the local programmers which of the approximately 500 Belgian beers they liked best.  How many beers Belgian brews is a hard number to come by, probably because in the researcher’s quest they sample too many of what they’re trying to count.  At the site simply called Belgian Beer, they list 119 breweries, 71 types,  and 1,498 beers…and remember all this beer is being brewed in a country the size of Maryland.

By the end of the 5 day conference, programmer had collected the names of twenty-some beers to sample during our travels, including Westmalle, Gueuze, Orval, Affligem, Kvlminator, Framboise, and Kriek.  Along with the following sage advice:

“Don’t drink them all at once.”

Trust me, with programmers it is always important to state the obvious, otherwise they’re given to serious and thorough experimentation.

Instead, he was going to drink them over the course of 3 days.  This is how it went:

Pre-dinner: One beer for the programmer and ‘one for Anya’ which was really so the programmer could just order two at a time for himself.

Dinner: Drink and repeat.

After dinner: Drink and repeat.

Problem: I’d start to chat or wide-eyed people watch and just pick up whatever was in front of me.

Next Problem: I, too, drank my way across Belgium.  Me, who hates beer.

The joy of Belgium beer: NO BEER AFTERTASTE!  Because, you know, beer tasting like beer is a serious offense.

Actually, beer tasting like Budweiser and Coors is a national disaster.  But I don’t even like Troegs and Flying Dog (two of the programmer’s faves).  American microbrews still taste like beer to me.

Belgium beer doesn’t taste like American beer…much to the disgruntlement of the programmer as my pints (which were supposed to be his pints) had disappeared by the time he wanted them.

I went to Belgium for the chocolate, but I fell in love with the beer.

The fuel of Java programmers.

I love chocolate, the darker the better, add some nuts, citrus, or mint and double yum.  I was definitely ready to visit some the family run, handcrafted goodness of the Belgium chocolatier shops that sprinkle every block of Brussels and Brugge.

On the otherhand, the programmer is ADDICTED to chocolate.  As in:

“I can’t fix this bug in the framework if I don’t have a piece of dark chocolate.”

And trust me, Hershey’s doesn’t soothe the programming beast.  I buy at least four bags of chocolate a month for the Java language guru.  So while I enjoy chocolate as an indulgent treat or a little dessert, daily chocolate allows the programmer’s world to continue spinning.  No chocolate, his open source projects halt mid-loop.

Needless to say, as soon as the programmer discovered  a chocolate shop adjacent to Antwerp’s central train station, there was a temporary cease and desist to our sightseeing tour.  He’d survived five days of the Devoxx conference at this point.  There was no way he was passing the shop by without getting a long awaited fix.

Now, the programmer is hooked on Belgium chocolate.  He doesn’t know what brand in the U.S. can compare to say, Mary Chocolatier,  a personal chocolatier to the Belgium royal family.

Will President Obama have a personal chocolatier?  If so, I need his or her name because I’m afraid the fancy chocolates sold by Target just aren’t going to fuel coding nirvana in the programmer’s universe anymore.  Or heaven forbid, I’m going to have to venture into a mall (yuck) and find a Godiva shop (although can Godiva still be considered a Belgian chocolatier since they’re owned by a U.S. company now?).

Either way, I need to find a solution soon because the six boxes of chocolate we brought home are almost gone.

I've got a feeling this is going to hurt.

I’m not one for resolutions.  They typically sound glum and painful.  Like last year’s actions were naughty and, channeling your inner chided child, you’re ‘resolving’ to be good this year while your subconscious fingers are crossed.  Can you tell I have authority issues?

In a little vocabulary slight of hand, I’ve determined my New Year’s Goals.  I like to expand on the old year’s efforts and plan new adventures.

One aspect of 2008 I’m very pleased with is my level of physical activity.  I came to the conclusion in January 2008 that sex alone was not keeping off the evil poundage of a writing lifestyle.  So this time last year, I vowed that if I was going to continue catering to my late night HGTV addiction I was going to do it while sweating on the treadmill and not while eating cookies on the couch.  I test ran treadmills and brought one home.  I could barely manage a mile at a brisk stroll.  But the walk to run routine of the winter led to more and more miles on trails in the summer and then my entry into two 5.5 mile trail races in October.  The races were exhilarating in an S & M kind of way.

My first 2009 goal is to run a half marathon.  The distance, 13.1 miles, is daunting but I have to keep in mind that 3 miles, much less 5.5 on a wooded trail, seemed impossible a year ago.

My second 2009 is to get out of my house more.

I live an isolated life despite being in the middle of a city.  My job allows me to stay in my 12 x 12 foot office.  I don’t have to commute further than down a set of stairs.  There’s no one around the water cooler except the programmer.  It is far to easy for me to not see another living soul in an entire week.  It is an existence that quickly leads to a dearth of enrichment but is easy to get comfortable in.  Sure I went to Europe, but in some ways that trip was a last ditch effort to be able to say I did something interesting in 2008.  Plus, I live in D.C., a cultural powerhouse, and in an area an easy drive to the Chesapeake Bay and ocean to the east and the mountains to the west.  It’s not like there is nothing to do or see here.

So, as much as I’ll miss y’all when I’m away from my computer, I’m swing dancing next weekend, watching the inaugural parade from the sidewalk, not my couch, and going a college alumni event to reconnect with old friends and make some new ones.

My third goal for 2009 has me catching my breath and sweating in panic.

In 2009, I vow to be less AFRAID.

Ryan, the author of Oktober5 , wrote about how we’re nobodies.  I hate that post.  It aggravates the hell out of me.  I slammed the laptop closed and ate a Belgium chocolate, trying to recapture some bliss.

Why does his entry piss me off?  Because it is too true.

Too much of my life is ruled by fear.

I don’t say or write what I want because I’m afraid of the response.

I don’t send out my manuscripts often enough because I’m afraid of the rejection letters.

I don’t try new things because I’m afraid of failing.

I don’t go to new places because I’m afraid I won’t fit in.

In 2009 I will conquer fear.

I will become ME.

What are your goals for 2009?  What do you want to conquer?

(Check out Ryan’s blog, Oktober5, for more aggravating insight into the human psyche mixed with weird and beautiful photographs.  For the next two weeks he is being featured by the Chuck Westbrook blog discovery experiment.)