"Hot"

The average temperature this time of year is 75F. Right now it is 100F. Gone are the crisp mornings. Gone are the balmy evenings levened by cool ocean breezes. I love the sun on my skin. Its like love and kisses and joy. Like slipping between fresh sheets, or the orgasmic perfectly ripe nectarine I savoured this afternoon, or the scent of jasmine.

I love the sun. I really do, but too much of it does me in. Pink nose, freckles, sunburn despite sunscreen and wide-brimmed sunhats. And then there is the heat. I'm wilting. I moved here because of the moderate climate. Because I love rain and mist and cool temperatures as much as I love the sun.

So the heat is making me cranky, and it isn't helping that this unusual heat has affected the cognitive capacities of everyone around me. My co-workers, even my boss, are incapable of thinking in this heat, so they are relying on me to do it for them. So I put in 11 hours today and I go home to my nice hot 80F home (who has air conditioning in their houses in Oregon?!), take a cool shower, read a bit, answer emails, unwind. Have a spat with M in SF. Ok, get that resolved, think about heading for bed, and J in Sweden asks for help on a coding problem. I warned him I was hot and tired.

Simple, I told him, do 'x'.
He says he cannot see the directory to do 'x' in.
I told him his permissions should be sufficient, just try doing 'x' with the full pathname. Really.
He asked, Why would that work if I can't see that I have access? (!@!$@#$ DUH)
What the fuck 'why'! I yelled at him. You've been a programmer for 20+ years. Either do the fuck what I said, or solve your own problem.
So he did. And it worked. (Of course *growl*)
He laughed sheepishly, which flooded me with an irritable urge to throttle him.
I told him I wanted to kill him.
He said, No, you don't.
I said, Yes I do. I really want to kill you. (Where is my fucking basket-hilt falchion??)
And he laughed. Again.
No, you don't, he said, you want to hug me, instead.
And I said, Its kill you, or fuck you until you beg for mercy. You choose which. And be careful what you wish for.
He said, I'd never beg for mercy.
And I answered, Like I said. One way or another, you are dead ;)

Afterwards, I told M (in SF) that programmers sometimes make me crazy because they are such literalists.
His response?
"I think that's a token statement."

Ok, so I'm coder enough that got a laugh out of me, but I still growled.

MEN!