Dusty Adventures In Computer Maintenance

My monitor thinks I abandoned it to killer dust bunnies.

This post could also be called: When So Many Things Are Broken You’re Finally Forced To Do Something.

Normally, I’m all about prevention because in my life, crap always breaks at the most craptaculous times. However, this has been the year where the programmer and I have focused on some big projects to the exclusion of all else (i.e. we’ve eaten a lot of pizza, there have been times when neither of us has had any clean underwear, and most of our friends and family probably think we’ve run off to join a cult). Needless to say, a lot of maintenance issues have gone unaddressed (think: house, lawn, car, body).

Well, the computer situation has finally reached ridiculous level.

Over the last nine or so months, the programmer has killed laptops and backup drives. But we know ourselves well, so we had extras of these (and for a while he used my little laptop). He also has a tendency to kill mice and keyboards, but yes, we had extras of those, too. Until last month, when the buttons on his final mouse died and I woke up to find the one I attach to my laptop had disappeared. He promised to make a Best Buy trip while I was away in San Francisco for a week but it seems that that mecca for electronically-devoted men didn’t have exactly what he wanted (I don’t know why it matters, he’s just going to break it).

That means no graphical editing on my laptop as it is a pain in the ass to use a touch pad in the Gimp. Just as soon as he’s done his big project, he’ll have the time to order what he needs. Plus, I always have my ancient desktop.

The pinnicale of computer reliability. When all else dies or gets killed (dropped) the desktop, which runs 24 hours a day, 360 days a year (I do turn it off when I go on vacation), for four years in a row can always be counted on. Who knows the last time Ubuntu was upgraded (it works just fine, therefore don’t touch or you’ll lose your fingers)? Unlike the laptop, which keeps yelling at me that there is a new version but when I try to upgrade it says I can’t. But you just said I HAVE TO! WHAT THE F$%K!

The unthinkable happened this morning. I had to restart the desktop because OpenOffice had one of its random click-the-file-button-and-X-comes-to-a-crawl freakouts (so maybe I should upgrade OpenOffice, but this happens so rarely that I forget about it until the next time it happens). So I reboot, get a glass of chocolate soy milk, and come back to a blank screen.

Swish the mouse. Nothing.

But the computer is on. Where is the login prompt?

Maybe a connection came loose? Avoiding the popcorn, crumbs, and other crusty unidentifiable things under my desk (when was the last time I vacuumed? Christmas?) I check all the cord connections. Still nothing. I smack the power button again. Stupidly praying that what ever is wrong will just magically fix itself on a new reboot.

Still nothing.

Oh, God, please don’t let it be my monitor. I heart my monitor. It was one of the first true flat screens to come out way back in the very early 2000s. A hefty, heavy, two and a half inch deep, black Mitsubishi. This monitor is perfect for me, perfect size, perfect quality. It has never let me down (and survived multiple less-than-gentle moves). The thought that it had died, with no warning, made me teary (or maybe it was all the dust under the desk).

I yelled for the programmer and woe-is-me pronounced that the Mitsubishi had gone to electronics nirvana in the sky. He rechecked the cords, swished the mouse, and hit the monitor’s on-off button. An archaic looking message displayed saying there was no input.

I did a little dance. IT’S ALIVE!

But something else was dead.

I can’t tell you what my computer started out as. It’s a Frankenstein. I think, originally, it was a Linspire. But then multiple harddrives died when we first moved into our house. Those got replaced and we added an additional one. Then the graphics card got replaced because it couldn’t keep up with World of Warcraft. The case was replaced with an airier one, bigger fans, new chip, wireless card, extra RAM. The only original components on the computer are the power source, motherboard, and the DVR and CD drives. The CD drive died at the beginning of the big projects more than a year ago; I play World or Warcraft from the noisy DVR burner.

So the latest death? The programmer thinks it’s the graphics card. Though we’ll have to open the case and test it.

We looked at the case. I mentioned the enormous amount of dust on the back vents. Unfortunally, I think I’m the cause of this latest meltdown. Typically I crack the case a couple times a year and vacuum it out. However, due to this last hectic year and everything getting shoved to the miles long to-do-after-project-complete list, the computer didn’t get any TLC. I’m afraid to open the case. I’ll probably find more popcorn…

Searching For My First Trail Race (and how to trick the Programmer into joining me)

You know how you can tell you’re maturing (I’m so not going to say getting old)? You can no longer sprint from a dead standstill like a squirrel that just found a junkie’s speed stash but you can log 7 miles and barely notice, when the thought of running 3 miles much less 7 only a year ago would have made you lay down and convulse from boredom and fear.

So I admit it, I’ve matured. (The programmer raises his eyebrows in disbelief.) Okay, okay, my running style has matured.

With my new found maturity and a dash of Olympic motivation (how can one not feel compelled to get off the couch and do something, anything, after watching these fabulous athletes?), I’ve been searching for local races. While I’m not the most competitive person on the planet, I think a race or two would be useful to get me out of my current time rut (my mile pace has been the same for the last month and a half) and I’m getting bored with my current route and am searching for a new venue.

Luckily, there’s a plethora of race options in the VA-DC-MD area. Actually, too many for an over-analyzer like me. Should I play it safe and just do a 5K? Or should I go right for the 10K - a distance I’ve never run in a race? I ran cross-country in high school (cussing and whining the entire way), so I have competitively (haha) run 5Ks. Or should I be pie in the sky and go for a half marathon in a month or two (I’m actually now logging about 10 miles a run)? Do I want a road race or a trail race? Will the programmer join me or be waiting in a lawn chair with a beer at the finish line?

I think I narrowed my options down to the following three:

Safe Option: Habifest 5K in Columbia, MD on September 20, 2008 at 8:00 AM. One of the things I love about road races is that they often support great non-profits and causes, such as this one that raises money for Habitat for Humanity.

Slightly More Ambitious Option: Run Through The Grapevine 8K in Mt. Airy, MD on November 2, 2008 at 10:00 AM. An 8K is only 4.97 miles but the course is described as very challenging (and probably even more so if one sneaks a wine tasting before the race). Then there is the wine tasting after the race…yum.

Ambitious Option with psycho package to add on: The fall Backyard Burn Trail Running series presented by EX2 Adventures. I could pick the 5.5 mile or 10 mile option and sign up for all four races as one package (the psycho option on my part, as I might be crying for mercy by November). But the races take place on some truly beautiful trails…

The next question is whether I can lure the programmer out of his cave to come and play with me. He just completed a mega-project that has literally kept him glued to his chair for the last nine months and one of his first orders of business in trying to return life to normal is getting back in shape. However, the programmer isn’t a runner. He’s a swimmer, a diver, a lacrosse player, and an ommming yoga master (the man used to be able to handstand on his thumbs and hold the position while zenning). Crazy cool, but I don’t consider yoga a sport…I don’t sweat…because I can’t do half the positions. Why?

Because yoga is: Twenty Million Positions that Cause Anya’s Shoulder to Escape from Its Socket.

The programmer considers running: The Sure Way To Bring on a Massive Asthma Attack and Cripple Myself with Shin Splits.

Yet, we’re trying to do more things together and want to spend time outside (aka, away from our computers). So maybe if I do the shorter races, tape his inhaler to his head, and bribe him with the promise of beer, food and even wine after some of these races, he might just join me. And remember, I’m not competitive, we can bring up the rear of the pack (a la the shuffler) as long as we do it together (cue cutesy sighing and cooing). Plus, while I’m not competitive and am willing to give up improving my mile pace if the programmer runs with me, the programmer, on the other hand, is super competitive, and I just may be once again whining for mercy by November.

Revisiting Ginormous and Stratospheric

The programmer is a conservative linguist.

An English traditionalist.  (Actually he started spouting off that all words should have Latin bases…Did the programmer ever take Latin?)

By my definition, the programmer is a word snob.

I on the other hand, am a language lover.  The more words the better.  Dare I say I enjoy adverb and connotation orgies between capital letters and periods? My day isn’t complete until I’ve discovered a less than typical word to torture unsuspecting listeners or readers with, or, better yet, made up a completely new one all on my own.

Why am I dragging my programmer’s word morals through my flamingly liberal new language cauldron?  Because riotous debate is the foundation of a joyous marriage.  And he’d worry something was wrong if I wasn’t try to convince him one of my crack-pot epiphanies was perfectly logical.

Last night, the programmer and I had another date.  Yes, the programmer and I consider sitting down and watching the Olympics together a date.  We’re cute that way.  By the way, I was disappointed in the announcers last night; no hyperbole.  The closest they got was gigantic.  Boring.

During the women’s gymnastics, I told the programmer that the words ginormous and stratospheric were legitimate words.  He hit the roof (yes, I’m exaggerating, of course.  Work with me people).  He’d honestly believed that I had made up ginormous and is horrified that it is part of the written language now.

Smugly (because I do everything smugly, I’m a brat like that), I informed him that ginormous is the combination of gigantic and enormous.

The programmer:  “Words should never be combined.  That’s lazy.”

Me:  “Well, it’s in the dictionary.  So regardless, it’s a real word.”

The programmer:  “Since when?”

Me (who is a fount of useless trivia):  “Circa 1948.”  (Yes, I used circa in a conversation).

The programmer:  “It’s been in the dictionary since 1948!”

“Well, no.  It didn’t get included until last year.”

It was the programmer’s turn to look smug.  “It’s not a real word then.”

Outraged on the dictionary’s behalf, I say: “Are you saying Merriam-Webster is wrong?”  Like I personally know Merriam Webster and he/she/they are real people.

The programmer throws a smackdown (another new word from 2007): “Yes.”

I get all squinty-eyed.  “Well, you can’t argue with stratospheric.  It’s the adjective form of stratosphere.”

“True, but it should only be used to describe scientific applications.  Not a gymnast flying off the high bars.  Words should not evolve.”

I gape in horror.  I throw a tomato at him.  “Words are constantly evolving.  It’s what makes language awesome!”

“That doesn’t mean they should…(this is where he spouted off that nonsense about Latin bases.  In retrospect, I think he was pushing my buttons.  Actually, I know he was since he brought up evolution.)

Needless to say, tomatoes went stratospheric and there was a ginormous mess in the kitchen, but in the end I got the word snob to say that ginormous could exist as long as it didn’t make it into technical books.

Must go write and publish technical book on something just to get the programmer riled up again.  Feel the love.

De-Junking Life of Your Mother-In-Law

I’m a creature of habit when it comes to the webpages I visit when I first crawl out of bed but haven’t yet woken up (there’s a huge distinction between the two).  I typically hit msn.com to check a combination of the news, smut, and other lifestyle stories.  I like the financial section.  I can’t tell you why I like it.  I definitely don’t have any money much less the ability to play in oil price speculation, but I’m fascinated with what is happening with other people’s money.

Call me Peeping Tomasina.  But it’s your green I want to see, not your ass.

Today it wasn’t the rise and fall of the dollar or how to become a millionaire on a penny a day that caught my attention.  At the top of the page, MSN has this blink-and-your-gritty-eyes will miss it motion box that flicks through groups of stories.  I want to know who aggregates these headlines and if they subconsciously stick certain things together to make my morning.

Today’s two side by side titles:

What To Do If You Don’t Like His Mother

De-Junk Your Life

Is the web maintainer trying to tell us something?  I’m picturing a hyped-up on Mountain Dew, twenty something, engaged young man in the do or die month prior to his wedding.  Are his girlfriend and mother not agreeing on center pieces?  Is his girlfriend trying to get rid of his foosball table?  Secretly he’s trying to hack into a travel prize website so his Mom wins an around the world cruise and is finding charities to donate all his girlfriend’s stuff to.

Trust me, one spouse knows when the other is less than buddy-buddy with the in-laws and will take steps to minimize contact (I found the mother-in-law article of non-use), and you will never de-junk yourself of his foosball table.  Embrace the junk.  However, the de-junking article did have some great links to charities that accept a multitude of items if you are managing to evacuate cherished items from the garage and basement (never gonna happen here).

My Back Up Career: Olympic Games Announcer

If the farmer/writer/consultant thing doesn’t work out, after watching last night’s coverage of men’s gymnastics, I know what I can always fall back on.

Olympic Announcing.

The programmer says I’d be fabulous.

Why?

1. I can babble for hours about nothing.

Never fear wife-rights activists! The programmer says this with much love. He adores that I can chitty-chat forever! I can hold the floor at a cocktail party, tell everyone everything that he is doing (and what the whole neighborhood is having for dinner) while he relaxes by the bar with his favorite beer. Both of us are ecstatic with this arrangement.

2. I am an expert at hyperbole.

Can’t quite remember that middle school English lesson? Hyperbole is an exaggeration, meant to be obvious and used to convey emotion or for comic relief. I’m afraid I use hyperbole to declare everything from how many dishes are in the sink (always a ton) to how I feel (I’m always dying from exhaustion, laughter, and lack of peach pie) to the speed of my life (shooting down the drain at twenty million miles a minute) (p.s. I like alliteration, too).

However, as much as I excel at working hyperbole in to just about every conversation if not sentence, the NBC Olympic announcers in Beijing taught me a trick or ten during last night’s broadcast of the Olympic men’s gymnastics finals (Where the U.S. men got bronze! Woohoo!). I am in Olympic-sized awe of their exaggeration skills. A few examples:

1. Ginormous

I thought I created this word all for myself (my ego is a discussion for another day). But recently I saw it on a mall sale sign, and then Bob Costas used it in his broadcast. I took great pleasure in telling the programmer it was a legitimate word and I wasn’t making crap up. Again. (another skill of mine: Mastercrapsgirl).

2. Stratospheric

Some of the guys on the high bars were described as going stratospheric. This one caught the programmer’s attention and he wanted to know what kind of word it was. “My kind of word,” I said with a smug grin which got me the husbandy groan of surrender.

3. Exploding knees

Okay, this one made me cringe a bit. Justin Spring messed up his knee last year and had reconstructive surgery. The announcer said something like “his knee exploded in competition”. Okay. Ouch. If his knee exploded, then how the hell does he have a leg left much less can do a triple twist and land without budging?

And now. For the Best Hyperbole Ever. And Probably The Most Disgusting. Wait For It…

4. Explosively Inconsistent

The announcers used this to describe one of the gymnasts, but in reference to what, I can’t remember. I was just too stunned. What the f&*@ does explosively inconsistent mean? Do I really want to know? Because there is really only one thing that comes to mind and it has to do with a mega case of food poisoning and living in a bathroom for a week. This is a case of Olympic Hyperbole FAIL.

The Programmer’s Wife Geeks Out Over Quantum Of Solace

I’m a huge James Bond fan. I grew up on the spy’s cold war nation to tropical island hopping adventures and learned a good bit of geography from the movies before I ever left the remote family farm. I didn’t know the name of the creek I lived on, but I knew where Vienna (The Living Daylights), the Silicon Valley (View To A Kill), and hot damn, even where all the bald Russians had their tanks stationed (Octopussy).

The teaser trailer for Quantum of Solace, the 22nd Bond film, was released yesterday. I love the shot of Daniel Craig coming over the rocky ridge with the big gun. (I am a girl, I don’t get into specifics, it’s either a big gun or a little gun, and yes, size does matter.)

I actually like the title, too, though I’ll probably have to read Ian Fleming’s short story by the same name to figure out what a Quantum of Solace indicates. The movie is going to have to be very, very good at coming up with an explanation for the title and not use some cheesy throw-away line (or trust me, they’ll never hear the end of it from the crazy fans like me). However, I do have sympathy for the marketers. Quantum of Solace is just not a phrase that rolls off the tongue, and I double checked the word’s definition because all I could think of was pairing quantum with the words physics and mechanics. (Quantum means quantity, a large amount, bulk, or portion.)

Now, I just have to wait until November 7th, and with the way my life has been speeding by this summer November will be here way too soon.

Snakes, Bats, Programmers and Fathers

The above list is probably a psychologist’s bread and butter. Fear of bats, fear of snakes, fear of programmers (ok, so maybe this isn’t a psychological issue yet, but it should be. They’re taking over the world one computer at the time (cue crazed, paranoid ramblings)) and daddy issues. So why am a bringing up phobias? As I grumbled on my Twitter feed last night, my shower got interrupted by five minutes of pounding on my front door. In damp, mismatched PJs and a towel wrapped around my dripping hair, I blearily confronted my neighbor. I was also slightly out of my mind since I’d just run ten miles.

Over 3 miles = brain mush.

The neighbor was, however, more out of his mind (though he claimed it was his wife who was freaking out). It seems that a large black snake had the bad luck of falling from a tree and onto their deck during a passing thunderstorm. They’d tried to poke and prod it off their deck but it had taken a liking to one of the deck chairs. Me and my shovel were being called upon to save them from the evil snake (I’ve transported several snakes off their property in the past). What really boggled my mind (and pissed me off) was that they had called a pest remover who said that it would cost $700 to get the snake off the deck, and that was only if it was nonvenomous. It takes five minutes to lay a shovel handle over the head of the snake and pick it up by its neck (Disclaimer: Don’t do this unless you’re me. I’m not responsible for any bites, meltdowns when the snake wraps itself up your arm, or Discovery channel show deals). Anyway, Hello! This is the Washington DC area. They’re are only two types of venomous snakes here; the timber rattlesnake and northern copperhead, both which prefer rocky, wooded, secluded areas—not townhouses, giant condo complexes, shopping boulevards and asphalt in the middle of an urbanscape. Regardless, neither venomous snake is black with a white belly as my neighbor clearly described. I think the animal remover was just trying to scare and bilk my neighbors.

So time for farm girl’s nature lesson on the benefits of snakes. Snakes are good. They eat mice, rats (which are taking over the city), and other small rodents. Without snakes, you’re probably going to find a nice big rat sitting on your chest one morning (and I highly doubt it’s cooking like in Ratatouille). Which would you prefer: snake on deck or rat in house?

Now, on occasion, snakes do wind up in the house. The enter through small crevices, and open windows and doors, typically in the fall when they begin to look for a place to hibernate. So don’t leave doors and windows open without tightly affixed screens (this keeps out all the other wildlife and mosquitoes as well) and caulk/seal crevices in your house (this is also a good energy saving exercise). If you do happen to find a snake in your house or outside, remember, it is just as surprised and suspicious as you are (remember, you’re bigger). The snake is going to try to avoid confrontation if possible, but if cornered, may become defensive (remember, you’re bigger, it thinks you’re going to eat it). If you’re outside, give the snake a wide berth and the two of you can go on your merry way. There are also ways to make your yard less enticing to snakes such as removing brush piles. If the snake is in your house, try sweeping it into a bucket. If you don’t feel comfortable removing it yourself, call your local Department of Natural Resources or Wildlife Service.

So what do snakes and bats have in common? Fear and loathing. I say BAT and the programmer and my father both say RABIES. Sigh. I can understand the programmer’s gut reaction. He’s from the city and never had a biology class in his life. My father is a farmer and educated in the natural sciences. Tsk, tsk. He should know better.

Ryann Wonders states:

“Although there is a myth that bats are carriers of rabies, the myth is entirely untrue and the percentage of bats thought to have rabies is estimated at less than 0.5%.”

To give you some hard numbers the Maryland Department of Natural Resources says:

“Over the last 50 years, 40 people have died of rabies transmitted by bats in the United States…The last reported death in Maryland attributed to bat rabies occurred in 1976.”

Obviously, bats are not the aggressive, blood sucking demons we think they are. What they are are mosquito eating machines. Now let’s get down an dirty with some statistics about a much more frightening creature: the mosquito with West Nile virus.

Lyle Petersen, a CDC expert, says:

“People tend to discount this as a significant problem, Petersen said, but more than 1.5 million people have been infected so far in the United States, and about 300,000 have had West Nile fever.

West Nile virus emerged in the U.S. nine years ago.”

Think about that number. One and a half million people have been infected in 9 years versus 40 people who have died in 50 years. Additionally, rabies is treatable and most people know when they’ve been bitten by bat and therefore seek immediate treatment. You probably get bitten by mosquitoes all summer long and don’t think twice. There is no treatment for West Nile virus.

Enter the bat (cue Hallelujah chorus and golden spot light): A little brown bat (very common in the mid-Atlantic) can eat up to 600 mosquitoes in an hour. These tiny creatures may be saving you from a summer of headaches, chills, fatigue and a potential hospital stay.

Maybe some of the fear comes from never having seen bats up close. Many bats in the mid-Atlantic region are small, many no bigger than a woman’s hand. Personally, I think they’re down right adorable (my father rolls his eyes at this and utters the word “girls” – see, daddy issues), and I want to cuddle up with them (this will get me the you’re-so-weird-but-I-love-you-anyway look from the programmer). Unfortunately, bats also can find themselves in your house (typically in gaps under your eaves). If you find bats in your house, call a conservation organization to relocate the colony. Please don’t poison them, hit them with tennis rackets, burn them with flaming hairspray, or try and shoot them with a shotgun (yes, sadly, people have used these methods).

As for fear of programmers. I’ve got to see if such a phobia exists. Even if programmers are dangerous, I think they’re cute and cuddly, too. Yes, I’m being a giggly girl. Yes, I’ll get violent if you kill my bats, snakes, programmer or father, no matter how pesky they are at times. The benefits far outweigh the occasional surprise of finding them where they weren’t expected from time to time.

*Photo from the New Hampshire Fish and Wildlife website.

Too Many Mimosas Lead to Diaper Cakes

I’m going to a baby shower on Saturday, and it’s inevitable that these poor girlfriends of mine who squeeze heritage size watermelons out of little holes are addicted to and therefore register at Babies R Us.

(Puffing into paper bag.)
(Violent shuddering.)

Let’s just lay it on the table.  Babies R Us terrifies me.  I’m sure it’s a great store, a great company, but what’s inside sucks out my soul and makes my eyeballs explode.  So many colors, so much kid glitz, and a whole aisle of nipples!

(Hyperventilating.  Again.)

So I procrastinated until the last possible moment before making the trip to the local mecca of all things for small humans twelve and under.  To share the horror, I dragged the programmer along.  He was skipping out on the shower festivities to go to Europe (Jazoon) without me, so I had to torture him before he escaped the continent.

Typically, when I enter the shrine to children’s materialism, I put on mental blinkers, because inevitably I get pulled down some other aisle in order to oooh, ahh, and scratch my head in confusion at what are today’s toys.  Most things seem over-sensory complicated and cheap.  And please don’t get me started on the “make every little girl a princess” aisle.  I now know where the world’s supply of pink tulle goes.  Of course, what do I know about toys?  As a kid my favorite game was to have T-Rex eat naked Barbie (and Barbie was always naked) and then everyone would get thrown from tree branches as they committed suicide (a game an aunt taught my sisters and I).

Back to adventures in baby paraphernalia land.  I have memorized the baby section location.  More importantly, I’ve memorized where they shelve the boppies.  Probably between 9 to 11 of my friends have received boppies.  They’re easy to identify and are on everyone’s registry.  The problem: I’m bored with boppies.  Maybe I’m ready for the next level of shower gifting.  That, or blame it on the mimosas.

The last shower I went to was only half a step away from being a wedding reception.  Fancy hotel, brunch, decorations, and best of all:  a mimosa open bar.  This shower made it worth going into baby hell Babies R Us.  And then across the room I saw not one, but two, tiered cakes.  Yes, cake before noon, I was in heaven.  Then the shower came to an end.  No dessert.  Was the expectant mama going to keep all that sugar for herself?  I sidled up to the table thinking maybe there were slices around it; I’d just missed the announcement due to being glued to the mimosa station.

I felt like complete dumbass when I got closer.  The cakes were made of diapers.  Arts and crafts masquerading as sugar and fat.  What a let down.  But the concept was interesting (more mimosa-induced fantasies probably).  Moms-to-be usually only register for one or two boxes of diapers but I’m sure they go through tons.  They may just register for all that other equipment because they feel bad making people buy something their little darling is going to crap in.  But really, they probably just want hundreds of boxes of diapers.  And this wouldn’t bother me at all.  I love practicality.  I like to try and give people what they really need.  So this cake of diapers was definitely a way to give a new mom what she really wanted but make it look pretty.  So I’ve decided to try it for Saturday’s celebration of reproduction.

Retrieving and dragging the programmer out of the video game aisle (and only getting distracted by the board games for fifteen minutes (I swear)), we headed to the adjacent Target after I deciphered from the registry what brand of diapers my friend desired.  I lost the programmer along the way (Borders and some excuse about needing coffee), but I forged on to Target and the diaper section.

Where I stood in awe.
And confusion.

When did diapers quit being called diapers?

Now they’re swaddlers and cruisers and easy ups?

I spent a half an hour chewing my lip in indecision between sizes, weights, and whether or not to get the sensitive skin versus brillo pad tough skin.

I did make it out alive, just as the programmer showed back up.  His response to the box I showed him.

“What the f%$^& is a swaddler?”

Hell if I know, but it better be related to a diaper.  Regardless, I’m making a cake out of them.

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.