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The customer says: we need to be able to add data to the system.
The software engineer says: No problem. Add new rows to the database.
The customer says: But we’ll need new data fields – we need to be able to say that our data now has new attributes, and the GUI has to be able to handle that without coding changes.
The software engineer scratches her head for a while (a long while) and finally says: Eureka! I’ve got it! I am invincible! [Our software engineer is a fan of the GoldenEye James Bond movie . . . insert your own mental image of our heroine in the appropriate pose.] We’ll just write the code in this convoluted way – and your system will be flexible to the nth degree.
The customer says: But I need it flexible to the n+Zth degree! I want to also stretch it in this hitherto unknown way that nearly approaches the bounds of intelligence in computing. The system has to be flexible enough to allow me to add new concepts and entities to it, and relationships between entities that not even Solomon could comprehend, without coding changes.
Interjection of paying client, since the customer is the associate of the paying client, but isn’t actually paying for the work: Oh, and you need to do it based on this code base here – that knows about 1 entity and no relationships, so that we can retrofit this into this earlier system.
The software engineer says:(in a professional and wise tone with her fingers in her ears and her tongue out) Pfffffft.

[The previous blog entry is based upon a true story. The names have changed to protect the guilty-as-all-get-out parties. The software engineer regrets any opportunities missed to say ‘Pfffffft’ in real life. And waits for inspiration. And hopes it comes in the form of very good beer.]

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Teen gets his head ripped off his body, dangling only by his spinal cord, and lives! That was weird enough, but in the newspaper account, it mentions him 1) hearing his friend screaming, and 2) summoning his pastor to the hospital before the surgery that saved him. How freaky to be conversing with a dangling head! And boy, you’d think that all of that would somehow be blocked out of your brain as some too-traumatic memory, or else just the trauma itself would send your body into such shock that you’d be knocked unconscious. Instead, the guy’s awake and interacting. Can you imagine the reaction of the medics who first got to the scene? That’d give me nightmares for the rest of my life!

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I got glasses not too long ago: one pair for close-up work, one pair for driving, to help deal with a mild astigmatism. When I first started wearing the close-up glasses, I noticed that windows on my computer started looking like trapezoids, rather than rectangles – the left and right boundaries were parallel, but the top and bottom slanted out. After a bit of wearing the glasses, I stopped noticing the effect. Just took off my glasses, though, after a couple of hours on the computer, and now I’m seeing trapezoids without my glasses. Freaky. . .

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Flowers: I love to have them around the house, and my cat loves to eat them. Ran across the following postcard out there in the digital ether of cyberspace – thought I’d share it.

Amazon has a Wish-list feature – Burpee’s ought to, too. . . Included on my wish-list would be the gardener who’d come along to keep me from either accidentally killing off whatever I try to plant outside or from planting something that in various places would be considered a weed that attempts to take over gardens (our mint plants and yarrow plants come to mind).

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PDA – in this case, personal digital assistant, rather than public display of affection. Though, if I win my latest auction at UBid for a Handspring Treo 90 , I may have to kiss the delivery man when it arrives.

I had an early model Palm Pilot several years ago, and loved it. Being the frugal person that I am, I had bought it off a friend of mine who had to get the newest, greatest version of the Palm. Thus, I got a Palm at a great price, and he got a subsidization for his latest geek fix. Worked out well all around. But, then I dropped my Palm and busted its screen. And rather than buy a new Palm I decided to stick to a paper organizer format.

For better than a year, though, I’ve had this yearning to return to electronic. For 2001’s Christmas, I convinced myself that until I knew better that I wouldn’t drop a PDA, I’d better stick to a DayTimer system, so my hubby got me an organizer set for Christmas. And it worked well. Still works well. But I still keep thinking I could do so much better with an electronic system. I could keep my work schedule synchronized with my personal schedule better (since my work schedule’s kept on Outlook); I could better keep track of the countless email addresses and other contact info I may need at my disparate locations (two offices for work, plus home); I could more easily. .. The lists keeps getting bigger.

So, I’ve finally decided that the Treo’s the one for me. It’ll synchronize with the applications that I want it to, it has a reasonable amount of memory and a color screen, it has its own built-in keyboard, and it has the ability to expand it to do other schtuff as necessary through an expansion slot. Now I’m seeking it at a more reasonable price than its nearly $300 retail. (Remember, I dropped the last one. . .) Desperately crossing my fingers that the one I’m bidding on at UBid winds up with me. Tried this earlier this week and got bid out at the last minute. The auction’s over in 30 minutes, so here’s hoping that Cora continues to snooze for those thirty minutes so that I can have a shot at getting that Treo.

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Cora’s figuring out pecking orders, and lately I seem to be the third person in line for her affections. First comes Daddy, then comes Grandma, and then comes me. Grandma and I actually alternate, I think, in terms of who takes position 2 behind Daddy. Cora will drop everything to go to Daddy; will cry and wail if Daddy comes into the room and doesn’t immediately pay attention to her; gets horribly upset if he leaves her sight. Grandma and I, well, we rate, but we’re just not Daddy.

The way that Cora’s affections work, if a higher ranking person is available, there’s no concept of sharing the love. Oh, occasionally she’ll drop a bone here and there, and go to a “lower-ranked” person for a moment, but she’ll quickly return her attention to the person higher in the pecking order. (Sounds like office politics, doesn’t it?) That means frustration both for the lower-ranking person and occasionally for the higher-ranking one who’s unable to peel away.

Tonight, after discovering I was in position 3 when picking up Cora from Grandma, I felt pretty hurt. Questions of: would it be different if I were home all the time, what am I doing that’s so different, why does Daddy win out – all went through my mind on the drive from Grandma’s to our home. I’m hoping to end up reconciling it with myself with a couple of points. The first is that Cora has lots of people to love because lots of people love her, and that’s a wonderful thing, regardless of where we all stack up in her current pecking order. The second I’ve forgotten because it still smarts that I’ve got to be an adult and forget about the “who’s loved by her best” kind of mental contest. She still loves to be held by her mommy, so long as her daddy isn’t around as an alternative. The third is that two days a week, mommy is around and daddy isn’t around as an alternative until he gets home from work, at which point its wonderful that Cora wants her daddy so that mommy can take care of other things.

Tonight I did make sure to work the system, though, so that I got my Cora-fix. Usually I come pick up Cora and then make dinner. We talk and coo, but I can’t hold her and play with her and still manage to get dinner on the table. So, dinner waited. (We had leftovers in the fridge, anyway.) And we played and cuddled and I got my mommy fix in until Daddy walked in the door. And then I made dinner and got the dishes done, since my hands were suddenly not needed for baby duty.

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My wonderful husband set up a date for us at the Rams Head Tavern in Annapolis to watch the Beatles tribute band, 1964. Note that this band is so good that 1) they’ve played at Carnegie Hall [and are scheduled to go back next year] and 2) they were recently on the cover of a Beatles fan magazine that “never covers tribute bands” (according to our very into-it table mate – the guy apparently missed paying attention to the Beatles the first time around, so is making up for it in a big way). The thing about this band is that they’re apparently very good at mimicking the look, sound, and mannerisms of the original Four. Whether they’re a great knockoff or not, it was a really fun show. And, with a great dinner at the beginning of the date, our daughter being well-cared for by grandma, and a selection of pretty darn decent beers available at my beck and call during the concert, I’d have to say it was a really good date. (Oh, yeah, the company was pretty good, too.)

Now I’m jones-ing to go see Deanna Bogart there in February. She puts on a great show, has a new CD out, and at least two of the guys in the band are locals who play regularly at one of our other local favorite places to dine.

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In the vein of they-can’t-be-serious(!):
Keep it Clean House-Cleaning Kit and CD-ROM
As quoted from their website:
“Humor him with the idea of housework. That’s right! He may not want to know how to clean the toilet, mop the floor or make the bed, but he will want to watch these captivating cleaning experts show him how to DO IT!”

Key critiques: one, I don’t want to “humor him” with the “idea” of housework. I’d much rather he do it, whether it’s humorous or not, and not just think about it. (I’m referring here specifically to their text – there’s no tie-in here to my hubby and our housework.) Two, again in the same vein, a guy who just wants to “watch [their] captivating cleaning experts” isn’t very helpful. “Dear, are you watching soft porn again? No, honey, I’m just refreshing on how to clean that toilet.”

[Brought to you courtesy of “Charlotte and John” who nicely sent me an e-mail with the subject “Make Your Valentine Shine!”. ]