Tuesday, June 27, 2006


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.
(c) Kayar Silkenvoice
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.


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Anonymous Anonymous said...

I am a programmer, who is very much interested in your postings here and on lit. Hope to catch up with you on chat sometime soon.

- Researcher on lit
- QueenFisher_Fishing4u on yahoo

6:16 PM, August 07, 2006  

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