Should Breasts Be An Open Source Project?

Will programmers even understand?

While I’m rather technologically challenged at times, I have developed a love for open source projects. I can usually find programs to do exactly what I want, instantly get it on my computer, and when I break it there’s tons of help in the form of wikis, forums, and devoted developers. Therefore, it was no wonder that the following blog title caught my attention: Open Source Boob Project.

That’s right: Open Source + boobs

Okay. My imagination scrambled. Could it be software for porn? For plastic surgeons? Did Boob stand for big object-oriented barnacles? Bran Oreos or beans?

Nope, boobs meant breasts. The mammary glands of mammals.

It seems that at the recent PenguiCon a group of people (I can’t figure out if they were all men) decided to ask attendees (not necessarily just women) if they could feel his or her breasts for the following purpose:

“It was an Open-Source Project, making breasts available to select folks. (Like any good project, you need access control, because there are loutish men and women who just Don’t Get It.) And we wanted a signal to let people know that they were okay with being asked politely…”

People were given buttons saying “Yes, you may” (feel my breasts) or “No, you may not” (feel my breasts). Accounts on exactly how these exchanges took place seem to vary wildly from simple, quick question sessions to groups of men descending on helpless breasts. Needless to say, there are a number of blogs and resulting comments that are dissecting the event with opinions ranging from stupid but harmless fun to no women will ever feel safe at a conference again.

I can’t tell you how I would have felt if these people had come up to me at a conference and asked to feel my breasts. It really would depend on my mood. The one point I’m getting stuck on is the people who have declared that it was a terrible question to ask in the first place. That I don’t agree with. Why can’t people ask any question they want? A question is a search for knowledge. Is some knowledge taboo to ask for?

Now that person you’re asking the question of doesn’t have to give you the answer you think you want to hear. You may ask me if you can feel my breasts anytime you want. I might say yes, no, none of your business, or this isn’t the appropriate time/place/audience to discuss/feel this topic. But I don’t think it is right that people censor their questions. Questions are good. I like to think questions bring truth, knowledge, and justice to the surface.

Now, there are others that feel such a question objectifies women. That men are reducing females to body parts with no minds. I have to admit I don’t really understand what objectifying women means. If it means that some man only thinks about me as a pair of breasts, pale thighs, or as a blond bimbo and not as an educated woman who likes sushi and French films…well…so what? I don’t care what he thinks about me. Why? Because frankly, it would never cross my mind that someone else is thinking about my breasts and ONLY my breasts. I don’t think of me as only my breasts. And the only thoughts that matter about me come from me (self-absorbed, I know). I’m probably naive and myopic for having that point of view, but well, this is my blog darnit. I definitely have to send this issue on to my sister though. She’ll have a field day (ranting at me) and actually understand the points about patriarchy.

My sister says women get objectified constantly-advertisements being a huge culprit-but everything she hates, I seem to just think as pretty, funny, or art. She would say I’ve objectified myself since my breasts are right here on this page. *sigh* Really, the breasts were just a good place to stick the mouse. I don’t take my breasts that seriously, I don’t take men or women staring at them seriously. I don’t really take anything seriously, which may be why I’m having difficulty relating to the people who are angry and disgusted at this situation. Many of the other bloggers speak of fear and horror.

kate_nepveu writes:

“If you are a stranger, especially a man, perhaps especially in a group of other strangers who are men, and you come up to me and say, “You’re very beautiful. I’d like to touch your breasts. Would you mind if I did?”:

You will put me in fear.

Because you could be someone who will go away quietly if I say no (which I will). You could be the exiled gay prince of Farlandia, cursed to wander this Earth looking for the key to his return that can only be revealed by touching the breast of a willing stranger, and who isn’t enjoying this at all. You could, in short, not be a danger to me.

But how am I supposed to know that?”

Suzanne Reisman writes:

“Personally, I’m not sure what I would do. I honestly think I would be frozen, shocked and horrified that some stranger would randomly approach me and ask to paw me. I’m sure I’d be embarrassed, creeped out, and feel like crying and/or puking. Yet this is what many women who attended PenguiCon were faced with during this year’s conference, which took place from April 18-20.”

I admit that I have never been in a situation that has caused me this type of fear. However, I’m very sure this fear does exist for other women and men, so please, don’t smack me, I’m not dissing this feeling at all. In reaction to the campaign groping at conferences (and groping in general seems to be a long term problem at these events), there is now a new open source project: Open Source Women Back Each Other Up Program.

While I don’t understand all the hubbub about the right to ask this question, the ethics versus the morals, or how it objectifies women, I can see that this was a bad idea. Was an open source and science fiction conference a good place to have a study about breasts? It might have been better at a gender roles or psychology conference. Announcements of the experiment should have been posted prior to the event, perhaps with legal disclaimers and such (because this is America and I just betcha, somewhere, a lawyer is getting all excited about this discussion (think lawsuit, not sex, people)).

So should breasts and the quest to demystify how they feel be an open source project? No. And the answer about why not is far simpler than morals, men and womens’ relationships with each others’ body parts, and the quest for knowledge.

I told the programmer there was an open source project about breasts while his fingers caressed the worn black keys of his laptop. His cha-cha typing stopped and he looked up at me, his brow slightly wrinkled.

He said, “how can you code a boob?”

Ahh, the straightforward simplicity of a programmer. Trust me, he doesn’t know what objectifying women is either.

Marry a Programmer and Never Do Housework Again!

People still do housework? I want to know where these couples are because they don’t live in this house. Maybe that’s what you get when you marry a programmer. NO HOUSEWORK.

Ok, I’m stretching the truth here, but I’m having a hard time believing a University of Michigan study that says:

1. Married women do 17 hours of housework a week.

2. Seven of these hours are created when they say “I Do”.

I’m trying to imagine what a women is possibly cleaning and cooking for 17 hours? Does she live in a mansion? And if you live in a mansion doesn’t it automatically come with maids?

First, let’s look at what the study defined as housework:

“It only included time spent cooking, cleaning, folding laundry, and other basic work around the house—not gardening, home repair, or washing the car. And it didn’t count supermarket trips, diaper changes, or testing a second grader on spelling words.“

What do I think of the tasks considered housework? You don’t need to do any of these things to live. The only essential thing I see is on the uncounted list: diaper changing. While I don’t have kids, I hope you consider changing your baby’s diaper essential. Everything else…is folding laundry really that important? You just unfold it to put on (I apply this same reasoning to bed making. Why make it when you’re just going to mess it up again in a few hours?). Cleaning: hire someone. Cooking/supermarket trips: hire someone or eat out. Gardening/house maintenance: hire someone.

You’re probably giving me the evil eye right about now.

“Anya must be rich to hire all these people,” you say.

Nope, not even close. But I have done some basic math. At what I earn an hour it makes far more sense to hire someone to do basic chores while I do my job. People don’t pay me to wash my dishes; they pay me to do my job. And after work, why would I want to push around a vacuum when I could be outside hiking or watching Curb Appeal?

I do admit to doing some chores. I cook from time to time. Why? Because I like to cook, not because the programmer expects dinner on the table. Yes, since getting married, I probably do more laundry-but the addition of the programmer’s clothes actually makes me more environmental. I have one of those washing machines that you can cram 24 pairs of jeans and a small goat into. I only own two pairs of jeans and no goat. Now, with my spouse’s clothes, I can actually run a full load of clothes instead of wasting water by running half a load.

How about division of labor between the husband and I? I actually can’t tell you whether the ‘division of labor’ has changed since we’ve gotten married; we each have our own things that we do. He grills, he paints, he clips the little fuzzies from the Berber carpet. I bake and putt around in the gardens. We knew what each other would and wouldn’t do before we got married. I told him I would never be June Cleaver and have a bad habit of tracking manure through the house. He told me that he would never, ever clean a toilet. And this brings me to my advice.

Why, whether you are a man or women, are you cleaning/cooking/mowing/etc? Was your answer: Because I have to? Who says? Who wrote this boring doctrine? No, you do not have to cook, clean and mow. You probably do these things because they’re what your mother and father did. And how happy are they with these chores, truly? (i.e. is your sweet mother downing a bottle of wine while she does the dishes; is your typically laid back father swearing under his breath when he hears the phrases “edge the lawn” and “trim the hedges”) Do you do these chores because you’ve watched too many old sitcoms (aka Leave It To Beaver)?

Stop! Stop doing chores you think you have to do just because other people in your life or on TV do them. Only do the things you want to do. Do you crave a pristine bathroom? Then clean it. But if your spouse is happy showering in a mildew jungle don’t get angry that he/she never cleans the bathroom. It’s not important to them, only to you. You want dinner on the table at 6. Well, then you better cook it.

The chores you’re willing to do (aka division of labor) should be sorted before you get married. (This also goes for topics such as having kids and religion). Just because my husband and I got married and professed are love in front of a crowd didn’t mean he would suddenly develop a burning urge to clean the bathroom or I would discover that folding laundry is fun. Do not expect your spouse to change once you get married. It just ain’t gonna happen.

As for how much official housework gets done by a programmer’s wife in a week. Probably only 5 hours (and that’s being generous). The programmer probably does about the same. So once again, I ask: what are women doing for 17 hours a week (and men for 13 hours)? I can only hope that for 17 and 13 hours you’re doing something that you really like (like cleaning grout with a toothbrush?) and that you’re only doing it for yourself NOT your spouse, neighbors, or in-laws. Trust me, people don’t give a crap if you dust your mantle, fold your laundry, or organize your books alphabetically. The urge to clean or cook is all about you and your perceptions. And sorry, it may sound harsh, but if you’re married to someone who insists on the bed being made but won’t do him/herself, then it’s time for you to hit the road.

Surprise Announcements from the Programmer (aka The Emerging Tech Conference)

Ahh, the exciting, spontaneous life of being married to a programmer. One minute you’re finished scheduling your week, then Wham!, he murmurs an offhand comment while squinting at his screen…leaving me blinking at my calender in horror and wondering if I have any whiteout left (because he mutters comments that tilt my world rather regularly).

So it seems I will be in Philadelphia next week…surprise, surprise. At some point the programmer signed up for the Emerging Technology Conference-a two day extravaganza featuring a smorgasbord of framework talks with catchy titles such as Battle of the Frameworks! How does one battle over frameworks? Do they use light sabers? Is the winner determined by who can code the fastest? Me, I’d take a laptop and just bonk them all over the head: I win! I win! I win! (oops, sorry, brief regression to childhood) .

I should have known not to start scheduling spring and summer fun without checking with the programmer. He tends to come out of his cave and go to programmer gatherings (aka conferences) when the weather warms. If only he would find scheduling software that was, well, perfect…but according to him such software doesn’t exist so he uses nothing (i.e. see previous post about perfectionism). So until such software exists (never gonna happen, sigh), I’ll be taking unexpected trips to Philadelphia…

The Programmer and Perfectionism

I read an article this morning about women and their quest for perfection. To me, this quest is unattainable (can we say Don Quixote but without the moral innocence) and frankly, why do we want to be perfect in all aspects of our lives? That and then the scientist part of me gets nitpicky:

1.  How do we measure perfection?

2.  What is the definition of perfection?

3.  How do we know when we’ve become perfect?

4.  What do we do when we achieve perfection? (fall over an die because there’s nothing more to do? get cryogenically frozen and put on display in a museum for posterity?)

Too much analysis for me.  While I think I understand the causes that launched today’s phenomenon of women attempting to be perfect (the perceived pressure for a pristine house with perfectly coordinated upholstery; gourmet yet home-cooked meals; smiling, happy, healthy, genius children; the right cars; the right neighborhood; a handsome, smart, sensitive spouse; an airbrushed body that competes with the models on magazine covers; an intellectually challenging, progressive work environment where you’re on the fast track for promotion every six months, and family and friends in the same stratosphere), I don’t have any desire to join the ranks of tired, unhappy, dissatisfied women striving for an ideal that someone else made up (of course maybe there are women who have achieved this supposed perfection and are therefore ecstatic-we just only ever hear of the people who aren’t quite making it).

I’m about as far from the above definition of perfect as one can be, and I have no interest in achieving it. I’m not in an up and coming neighborhood (but I adore my neighbors), I don’t have a car (I’d have to wash it and put gas in it), dinners are often soup and sandwiches, dishes get left in the sink over night (and ignored through the day), nothing in my house matches (because, frankly, I have zero fashion sense), I don’t have kids, well-adjusted or otherwise (and am on the receiving end of ‘you’re not getting any younger’ looks), I will never get a corner office unless I pay for it myself (since I’m self-employed), and even if I workout for two hours everyday and just eat lettuce, I’ll still have an ass. And I wouldn’t change any of this to have a ‘perfect life’. My house feels like home, my career goals are to be self-sufficient and to be able to pick and choose my clients, I can still fit into my jeans from college, and I love my friends and family though they’re strange, quirky, and sometimes just plain weird. In the end I’m happy with me, happy with where I am in my life, and can’t quite think how it can get any better than this.  (That does not mean I want this moment to last forever.  I have goals: I’d like to have more time to read books, I’d like to run a 5K a few minutes faster, I’d like to be part of an archaeological dig some place warm and exotic but not break any nails or sweat…)

Maybe why I’m able to deal with or ignore the pressure society/media/women put on women to be perfect is because I see the quest for perfectionism and its consequences numerous times a year. I am married to a programmer. Programmers can be absolutely obsessed with perfection. Learning the perfect language, finding the perfect framework, writing the perfect code, making it all perfectly clean and concise, having the perfect coding and testing environment on their computer(s)…and I could go on. In the programming facet of his life, my husband strives for perfection often-TO THE EXCLUSION OF ALL ELSE. Forget food, bathing, sleep, everything…about all he does is get up to use the bathroom.

To me this translates into: ‘If I try and have a perfect life, I won’t have any life to speak of‘.  Damn, that sucks.  And I promptly throw the idea of perfection out the window.

The other thing I’ve observed about the quest for perfection: IT JUST NEVER HAPPENS-the perfection part that is.  My husband has never found the perfect programming language, framework, working environment, etc. for a project (and I don’t think this is because he’s not smart).  Then he just gets upset.  Why is a project never perfect?  Well, because there are other people involved, budget constraints, time constraints, psycho clients with crazy request…the list goes on.  All the same factors will affect your ‘perfect life’; money, time, wacko children, family, and co-workers.  Let go, honey, you can’t control it all (and do you really want to?).

So while I may not be on a quest for perfection, how do I deal with a programmer who does desire perfection in at least one facet of his life?

Fact: I don’t understand his quest/obsession for programming nirvana, BUT I ACCEPT IT. I understood what he was like before I married him and had no delusions that he would change after we got married. So my advice to you, don’t try and be society’s vision of perfect (like we could define it any way) AND ALSO don’t expect your programmer to be perfect (in his programming or the rest of his life). You know how I listed the spouse as being handsome, smart and sensitive. Well, mine is handsome, smart in programming but not all that sensitive when his nose is pressed up against a monitor. But this supposed flaw doesn’t bring my life to a grinding halt. Programming is my husband’s life but my life is centered around a multitude of other things (and not my husband). He wants to spend Saturday programming, great! I’ll spend the day hiking, visiting friends, or pursuing my own work. My life doesn’t revolve around him nor does his revolve around me. We are companions, lovers, friends…not dependents. Sure, there are days where I try to persuade him out of his chair or nag at him to shave, and he’ll usually listen to me, but I also recognize when he is in his perfection mood and leave him alone.

Oh, and on the flipside, my husband doesn’t expect me to be ‘perfect’ either.  He point blank told me that he’ll never ever clean a toilet, even if his life depends on it, but he’s also never said anything to me when the bathrooms become tiny toxic waste pits…or his feet stick to the kitchen floor…or my outfit doesn’t match…or he’s out of underwear…or there are no clean glasses and if he wants dinner he better pick it up on his way home.

Now that’s love (and my definition of a perfect relationship).

Tying Up The Wild Programmer

In a vicious battle of epic proportions, I knocked my husband out with his wireless keyboard, tied him to his office chair with an USB cord and rescued my laptop from his evil clutches.  It’s been absolutely forever since I blogged because I’ve been sans laptop and the creative juices just don’t flow at my desktop.

Okay, so maybe the battle wasn’t so violent or of historic relevance.  In truth, the programmer return from a long business trip, fell asleep on the couch, and I snuck my much-missed baby out of his bag.  However, I may still tie him up, especially since he’s fast asleep.  (If you want to tie up your loved one but they’re bigger or strong, it’s best to use the advantage of surprise.)  And of course, it’s almost Valentine’s Day so I have serious amorous intentions toward my programmer.  Now decisions, decisions…should I use USB cords, the neckties I just dug out of his suit case, or my slinky scarves?

Death Due To Lack of Swap

Alternate title: Somebody better re-boot my programmer real quick or blood, guts, RAM, and little green boards will be strewn all over the office.

Mark O’Neill is blogging about my life on Geeks Are Sexy ^TM. His post, When all that’s left is to re-boot your day, is cutting awful close to home as I listen to the moans, groans, curses, and other unintelligible mutters from the office next door, aka my programmer’s cave. I think programmers are rather prone to days that go all to shit. They go to bed late, therefore the wake up late, setting them up for trudging into that engineering meeting fifteen minutes after they were meant to give a status report and without having gotten down their second cup of coffee. Their computers are always crammed with cutting edge products and beta releases, a toxic recipe for errors, conflicts, and system meltdowns. Instead of designing the scope for their latest project, they’re busy submitting bug reports because their new hydrogen powered keyboard doesn’t work quite right with the latest release of Redhat. In frustration they pound said keyboard into the desk, spilling that last precious drop of coffee all over their papers. They’re now coffeeless because they never told their adoring wife that they had used the last of the coffee…and milk…and sugar. And so the day goes on: angry boss, angry co-workers, angry clients, angry wife, and most of all an angry, frustrated, caffeine-deprived programmer. Rinse and Repeat (he stayed up until 6 AM because he insisted on making that keyboard work).

I’m going to print Mr. O’Neill’s post and tape it to my husband’s forehead in a few minutes. Unfortunately, I don’t know if a fifteen minute nap is going to do it for my programmer today. Why not, even though he desperately needs the sleep? Because the same laptop will be waiting for him when he wakes up.

Until a week ago, my programmer had a large, black IBM something or other. Somehow or another the memory was slowly being corrupted. He turned the laptop into the company he was working for and than summarily quit (not because the laptop sucked, though). The problem: I cracked the motherboard on his personal laptop about a year ago. It collects dust on a bookshelf. So me, being all sweetness and light, offered to let him use my laptop until he picks out a new laptop for himself. New problem, my cute little System76 can’t cut it. Don’t get me wrong, it works for me just fine, but all I’m running is Open Office and Firefox. My programmer’s got Eclipse, IDEA, Java, Oracle, consoles, documents, Gimp, and three other things I can’t identify running. And, according to him, System76 didn’t configure the computer to have any swap.

Swap? What are we swapping? Does this mean I get my poor little computer back?

So today, I would desperately love to re-boot my husband. But that’s only a temporary solution. What I really need is for someone to give me laptop advice. Something that doesn’t come with Windows (or Mac OS X), doesn’t cost as much as a mortgage payment, something that can run twenty or more RAM sucking programs at once, and something where I can’t crack the motherboard.

Please, take mercy on a simple girl, and send me some laptop ideas. Or the world might just lose a gifted programmer today. No re-booting will save him. Somebody’s primary hard disk will never be found again…

(No programmers were hurt or will be hurt due to this post, but my little temper tantrum just now sure felt good.)

Late Night Email Dialogues: Locating The Mouse

My programmer emails me when I’m just down the hall. Fast asleep. He comes to bed at 4 AM (a bona fide night owl he often declares with glee). Me, I’m on the reverse schedule. To bed by 11 PM, up by 8 AM. Waiting in my inbox is always a collection of his late night thoughts.

Three emails waited for me this morning from my programmer.

Email time stamp: 1:31 AM

From: The programmer

To: Anya

“Scrape me off the floor, I am laughing so hard Check out this blog…”

This statement is in reference to my The Programmer And The Treadmill post. What I found hilarious was the fact he was emailing me my own post. He doesn’t/didn’t know I had a blog.

Next email:

Time stamp: 1:38 AM

“What’s even funnier is that it wasn’t until a couple minutes later I realized that this was your blog. I’m like, “wow, this is soooooo true!” Then it was like too true…and then my half asleep mind finally realized that it was your blog…”

Uh, oh. My secret is out.

Third email:

Time stamp: 1:40 AM

“Hey, that’s my mouse! I’ve been looking for it…can I have it back now?”

Just like a techie. Not: “Hey, I’ve never seen that lingerie, wanna wear it for me tonight, baby?” Or: “How dare you bare your bosoms on the internet!”

No, no. He just wants to know where his mouse is.

Wouldn’t he like to know…

The Programmer And The Treadmill

I’m searching for a treadmill. Running is the only exercise that counters my cake, pie, donut, and soda addictions. My weakness (besides sugar): I hate the cold, and it has been damn cold on the east coast this week. So I did some research and set out to try a few models, programmer in tow. My husband is not a runner, in fact, he hates running as he’s always instantly attacked by the dread shin splint demon. (Me, I’m a freaking Clydesdale-no shin splints, turned ankles, or pulled hammies). Anyway, my husband doesn’t need to run, he’s a toothpick. I’m always trying to feed him (but the care and feeding of a programmer is fodder for a whole slew of other blog posts).

Back to my convoluted story. My husband was just along for the ride because we were going to get dinner afterward. I’m grilling the salesperson while my programmer is grumbling at the television hanging from the ceiling (his football team lost in the playoffs).

The salesperson utters the words of death: “This model has several programs and can keep track of your progress.”

No shit, I could hear my husband’s neck crack he swung his head around so fast. “It has programs?” he asked, his gaze instantly glued to the treadmill’s console.

I started waving my hands, ineffectively. “No, no-you can’t program it that way,” I said.

But it was too late. He was pressing buttons, trying things out, and I could imagine where his brain was going…”it has buttons, it has a motherboard, it has a display, I wonder if I can load Linux on it”.

Hubby says the next evil words, “maybe I will use it.”

Gleefully, the salesperson suggests the next model up as there will now be two runners.

I don’t need the next model up. What I need is two treadmills. One for me to run on. One for my husband to load Linux on.

Words of wisdom: Don’t take your programmer shopping for anything with circuitry, no matter how uninterested they seem in the product. You never know what convoluted plan their brain will concoct after hearing the sales pitch.

Spread A Little Love, Programmer Style

Just because a programmer is starry-eyed and seemingly, completely absorbed with the latest release of Firefox or a new software framework (Seam (has nothing to do with sewing), Ruby (I’m not talking about a sparkly you can put on your finger), or Spring (not the season or something you can bounce on) doesn’t mean he or she isn’t cooking up ways to show the profoundness of their love for their spouse. Programmers just might not declare their love via traditional methods (flowers, candy, sparklies from an honest-to-goodness jewelry store). Heads up, programmers: BestBuy is not a jewelry store, a thumb drive on a lanyard doesn’t say quite the same thing as a string of pearls.

But programmers are very, very good at showing their spouses how much they love them using their techie skills.

Take Jay McCormack for example, a Solution Architect in Australia. I’m not quite sure what a Solution Architect is, but his blog contains words that my programmer uses (IMAP, Web 2.0, Open Source), so Jay’s getting shoved into my programmer classification. On his blog, he has a lovely, toe-curling (men, when a woman curls her toes, it’s a VERY good thing) accolade to his wife-he’s telling the whole world he can’t live without her. And while he’s the techie, I get the impression he’s hugely amused that his wife’s website is leaving his in the dust (think the almighty page rank quest).

So, programmer, use your unique skills to show your love. For example:

1. Write a blog entry about how much you love your wife (or husband).

2. Design a webpage for her own personal use (if she wants one), or make a private blog where the two of you can engage in digital flirting in your own personal cyberscape.

3. Bring home goodies from your conferences-sure the T-shirts and thumb drives are branded with logos she’s never seen, but she’ll know you were thinking about her even when you were getting bombarded with the latest and greatest technology.

4. Make sure she has her own techie stuff (i.e. the computer she wants (not your cast-off or what you think is best for her), a new mouse, her own girly mouse pad, an ergonomic chair made for her butt).

5. Ask her for a picture for your office (she’ll go all gooey that you want to show her off to your co-workers). Use her picture as your background on your monitor.

Pursued by a Lusty Programmer (aka Dating)

I mentioned in my first post, What is a Programmer, that dating a programmer is very different from cohabitating with a keyboard-caressing code maestro. Programmers typically possess terabytes of focus. And let me tell you, having that all-consuming mind directed at you is wonderful, ego-inflating, and possibly love-inducing. He/she pursues you, hangs on to your every word, sends gifts (and ten emails per day), and devotes days, nights, and weekends to spending time with you. Sure, they may be a little unfashionable (the first time I met my future husband he was wearing too-short, faded navy dockers his mom had bought him in middle school-the boy had been out of middle school for a good ten years), those gifts are sometimes a little strange (T-shirts touting computer companies and products), but they remember the things you like, research them, and then take you to a new French restaurant (your favorite kind of cuisine) and get those coveted Broadway tickets.

Programmers LISTEN - when they’re dating you.

However, on the most basic level of the programmer’s mind, you are a problem to be solved. They want you. They NEED you. Therefore they are going to allocate all their resources to getting you. Once they’ve acquired you (project objectives: complete), they’re moving on to the next problem.

They still love you. They still lust after you. The relationship has just shifted into the maintenance phase. The programmer only checks back when a bug is filed (i.e. you’re having a hissy fit about the dirty socks hanging off the stairway railing).

Don’t worry. If you decide to let your programmer catch you, I have tons of tips I’ll share later on how to live (and stay sane) with your programmer.