Just about everybody conversant with technology is familiar with the term "bugs" when used in relation to computers and/or software. As a user of software myself, I'm well aware of how much fun it isn't when you experience a problem, like losing an entire file you just typed but hadn't yet saved, and which also wasn't saved for you since you turned off that annoying autosave feature.
The problem is that I also create software, and it's no more fun from where I sit to hear users of my systems complain.
It isn't because I'm not responsive to these issues, either. Unfortunately, due to government involvement in system changes since the days of Enron, a huge paper trail must exist to report on modifications to any internally controlled software packages that materially contain data on or affect financials. This means that requested changes, whether bug fixes or enhancements, must be listed in a website and tracked from start to finish, including programming effort, user testing, acceptance and implementation.
It's not easy to program an entire system. It's also not easy to hear one person, relatively new to the system itself and the business reasons behind why it does what it does, say things like "You know I'm just paranoid about this crappy system." Microsoft systems have bugs, to the point where people joke about new software releases. Of course, they have a lot more software than I do, and entire teams of people to work on them, whereas for years I was the sole person responsible for programming many of the systems, still in use today, that I continue to control. It's therefore impossible to separate the system from ME.
That's why I had to suppress the urge today to tell this person to feel free to take over the programming of said system and see how THAT went.
And people say I have no tact.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
This isn't gonna be a fun ride
I was just lying in bed contemplating my life, and wondering where I went wrong. Not to sound whiny or anything, but I am feeling beleaguered. I've been told that I have a reputation at work for being ... not sure how to put this ... not aggressive, per se, but definitely hard. Not difficult, mind you, but clipped, precise, impatient - those all might fit. For example, when having a discussion with the local office head of the outsourcing company my employer uses, he started off with polite small talk, which we managed to rush through because my time is short. When we got into his actual business-related questions, I handled them with brief, concise, straight-to-the-point answers. Although he had scheduled the meeting for half an hour, we were done in 10 minutes. He told me at the end that this was why he liked dealing with me - I have no time for wasting.
For another example, one of my business system users once mentioned, during the course of the conversation, that she had trouble believing that at home I am outvoted and overruled. When I told her that at heart I'm really a marshmallow, she was shocked. SHOCKED.
Unfortunately, that's the real point. Somehow, although I am the sole breadwinner who supports a family of six, including a husband who hasn't been gainfully employed in 12 years, I get virtually no respect at home. I have to scrub the word "Doormat" off my forehead every night before I go to bed, but it's just going to show up again tomorrow when I set foot in the house after work. My natural desire to be accommodating and helpful has resulted in most of my family feeling that they can treat me with disdain.
I find this, to say the least, extremely frustrating. Although I never completed college, I did start. Since I'd rather read than watch TV, except for my weekly installment of "The Biggest Loser", I've picked up a few things here and there. In addition, my job requires me to work with all levels of the business community, all the way up to CEO/COO/CFO. Early on, I was intimidated. Now, I have no time to waste on that either. The last COO of our company, who left last year, sent me an email telling me he had always enjoyed working with me, and loved my sense of humor, which he "almost always understood". I know I have a dry sense of humor. I can't help it, it's a defense mechanism. This same gentleman, when told I had tendered my resignation (months prior to his departure), called me personally to ask me if there was anything he could do to convince me to stay - and at that time, I was an employee of a joint venture between his company and an offshore outsourcing company - essentially, a consultant. He, the COO, called me, a schlub programmer with a "Manager" title who doesn't even have a college degree. Granted, I've worked my ass off for years.
So WHY, might you ask, am I complaining? Here's why. Tonight, at 10pm, I walked into my daughter's room and asked her, very politely, with a "honey" thrown in, to get off the phone and into bed. She yelled at me. This happens often. Yes, she's a teenager. Yes, years of PMS have recently come to physical fruition. However, I'm pretty damn sure I knew better than to talk to my mother that way.
Here's another example. My husband, who is nominally a homemaker in that he stays home and doesn't work, will also complain, when I get home, about unfolded laundry, unvacuumed floors, unwashed dishes. Never mind that he's at the house for the entire day, doing nothing. Never mind that the unwashed dishes weren't in the sink when I left that morning for work.
How did it get to this point? How is it possible that I can work all day, stress 24/7 about my ability to provide for my family, hand over money to the kids for essentials like new lip gloss and the latest video game, without being able to expect that some chores will be done or the bare minimum standards of politeness will be adhered to?
The outlook is not entirely bleak - my older son, also a teenager and the oldest of the bunch, actually volunteers to help. If he sees me pulling the bag out of the garbage can, he'll take it from me and bring it outside. When I was sick for five of the seven days of my recent "vacation" (during which the phone continually rang with calls from work), he was the only one to ask if I'd taken any medicine or if maybe I thought I should see a doctor. But the girls, hormonal little beings, were focused totally on things they needed from me.
Is it this way for all parents? I've got this idea, call me crazy, that some women have supportive, well-meaning husbands and children who don't regard them as some kind of moronic enemy. I feel like I'm falling apart here, afloat on a tiny raft, surrounded by sharks, out of fresh water and not even an island in sight. Maybe that's why I'm contemplating the only mid-life-crisis purchase I can really afford - a tattoo. It's gonna be a lemon, literally. I figure it'll symbolize several things, not least of which the fact that genetically I was given a lemon body that I should be able to send back for a trade-up. A friend at work even found a fairly attractive one, and I figure that when I wrinkle the tattoo will do the same along with me, and will realistically resemble a lemon that's been left in the crisper for too long.
If anybody's reading this, HELP. Any suggestions will do - send me a message in a bottle, and maybe it'll help me find that damn island by floating ashore.
For another example, one of my business system users once mentioned, during the course of the conversation, that she had trouble believing that at home I am outvoted and overruled. When I told her that at heart I'm really a marshmallow, she was shocked. SHOCKED.
Unfortunately, that's the real point. Somehow, although I am the sole breadwinner who supports a family of six, including a husband who hasn't been gainfully employed in 12 years, I get virtually no respect at home. I have to scrub the word "Doormat" off my forehead every night before I go to bed, but it's just going to show up again tomorrow when I set foot in the house after work. My natural desire to be accommodating and helpful has resulted in most of my family feeling that they can treat me with disdain.
I find this, to say the least, extremely frustrating. Although I never completed college, I did start. Since I'd rather read than watch TV, except for my weekly installment of "The Biggest Loser", I've picked up a few things here and there. In addition, my job requires me to work with all levels of the business community, all the way up to CEO/COO/CFO. Early on, I was intimidated. Now, I have no time to waste on that either. The last COO of our company, who left last year, sent me an email telling me he had always enjoyed working with me, and loved my sense of humor, which he "almost always understood". I know I have a dry sense of humor. I can't help it, it's a defense mechanism. This same gentleman, when told I had tendered my resignation (months prior to his departure), called me personally to ask me if there was anything he could do to convince me to stay - and at that time, I was an employee of a joint venture between his company and an offshore outsourcing company - essentially, a consultant. He, the COO, called me, a schlub programmer with a "Manager" title who doesn't even have a college degree. Granted, I've worked my ass off for years.
So WHY, might you ask, am I complaining? Here's why. Tonight, at 10pm, I walked into my daughter's room and asked her, very politely, with a "honey" thrown in, to get off the phone and into bed. She yelled at me. This happens often. Yes, she's a teenager. Yes, years of PMS have recently come to physical fruition. However, I'm pretty damn sure I knew better than to talk to my mother that way.
Here's another example. My husband, who is nominally a homemaker in that he stays home and doesn't work, will also complain, when I get home, about unfolded laundry, unvacuumed floors, unwashed dishes. Never mind that he's at the house for the entire day, doing nothing. Never mind that the unwashed dishes weren't in the sink when I left that morning for work.
How did it get to this point? How is it possible that I can work all day, stress 24/7 about my ability to provide for my family, hand over money to the kids for essentials like new lip gloss and the latest video game, without being able to expect that some chores will be done or the bare minimum standards of politeness will be adhered to?
The outlook is not entirely bleak - my older son, also a teenager and the oldest of the bunch, actually volunteers to help. If he sees me pulling the bag out of the garbage can, he'll take it from me and bring it outside. When I was sick for five of the seven days of my recent "vacation" (during which the phone continually rang with calls from work), he was the only one to ask if I'd taken any medicine or if maybe I thought I should see a doctor. But the girls, hormonal little beings, were focused totally on things they needed from me.
Is it this way for all parents? I've got this idea, call me crazy, that some women have supportive, well-meaning husbands and children who don't regard them as some kind of moronic enemy. I feel like I'm falling apart here, afloat on a tiny raft, surrounded by sharks, out of fresh water and not even an island in sight. Maybe that's why I'm contemplating the only mid-life-crisis purchase I can really afford - a tattoo. It's gonna be a lemon, literally. I figure it'll symbolize several things, not least of which the fact that genetically I was given a lemon body that I should be able to send back for a trade-up. A friend at work even found a fairly attractive one, and I figure that when I wrinkle the tattoo will do the same along with me, and will realistically resemble a lemon that's been left in the crisper for too long.
If anybody's reading this, HELP. Any suggestions will do - send me a message in a bottle, and maybe it'll help me find that damn island by floating ashore.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Easter of 2008
It was a long Easter weekend this year. It started badly Thursday night (since I had Good Friday off from work) with my daughter Catherine tripping in the bedroom and whamming her cheek on the corner of the TV table, which immediately resulted in a bruise, followed two days later by a greenish black eye. Thanks to a reassuring visit to the pediatrician Friday morning, we learned that she hadn't broken the bone below her eye. As an experienced mother of four, the injury itself wouldn't be so bad if it hadn't followed a similar one last fall where she fell down the steps from our back porch while waiting for the rest of us to get it in gear for a trip to the mall. I'm convinced that the school has labeled us child abusers who, every so often, decide to pop her in the eye. Never mind that anyone who knows me knows that (a) I don't believe in even swatting a behind (let alone a true spanking) and (b) I can't do more than skim the news websites because I can't stand all the stories where kids are hurt, either accidentally or deliberately by their supposed loved ones.
Moving on.
Generally, Mark cooks in our house. This is not because I CAN'T cook...it's because, thanks to his native personality and the Food Network, he can't resist Emeril-izing or Rachael Ray-ing any meal. I'm sure everybody thinks of the dishes from their childhood as "comfort food". My mom's lasagne is up there at #1, although I have fond memories of "Chicken & Broccoli", slathered in cheese sauce. Nowhere in these memories do red bell peppers or mushrooms appear, but according to the Tao of Mark, they're essential in any dish that isn't dessert.
Yuck. I mean, I like bell peppers, and I like mushrooms, but I also like several dishes just fine without them.
SO this weekend I decided to cook. We had baked ziti Friday night. Mark labeled it as "perfect", but I think he was just trying to make up for the disagreement we had Thursday evening prior to Catherine's injury. The ziti wasn't bad, mind you. "Perfect" might be a stretch, though.
Saturday, we had a dish which has become my favorite at the Cheesecake Factory and for which I found the recipe online. I can't name it, since it's their recipe, but it involves chicken, bowtie pasta and yes, bell peppers and mushrooms, but they're supposed to be there. Since this is my favorite CF dish, I was happy as a clam. Mark, who decided to run errands just when dinner was ready, had a few complaints about the slightly congealed cream sauce an hour later when he finally sat down to eat, but I figure that was his own darn fault.
Sunday was the real cooking effort. Catherine suggested Eggs Benedict for brunch. Since her other breakfast fave is fried dough, I was happy with the idea, and cooked up a storm of eggs & Hollandaise sauce. Then I prepped the artichoke dip appetizer, and after it was covered & in the fridge, boiled eggs for the egg-coloring we hadn't managed to get to yet. While they were cooling off, I prepped potatoes for a jammin' but very calorie-laden potatoe pie recipe from my best cookbook. After actually cooking the dip, and getting the ham in the oven, I had time to color eggs. Then, back to the kitchen to finish off. By the time we actually sat down to eat, I no longer had the appetite or the energy to do it justice.
Bananas Foster for dessert.
I feel like I've delivered a fairly gourmet weekend, during which there was also (a lot) of grocery shopping, plus cleaning, laundry, baths, compilation of Easter baskets, and dish-washing. I know that some people do all this work EVERY DAY (maybe not the Easter baskets). All I can say is, my hat is off to those OTHER people, and I was really happy to be back in the office today.
Phew.
Moving on.
Generally, Mark cooks in our house. This is not because I CAN'T cook...it's because, thanks to his native personality and the Food Network, he can't resist Emeril-izing or Rachael Ray-ing any meal. I'm sure everybody thinks of the dishes from their childhood as "comfort food". My mom's lasagne is up there at #1, although I have fond memories of "Chicken & Broccoli", slathered in cheese sauce. Nowhere in these memories do red bell peppers or mushrooms appear, but according to the Tao of Mark, they're essential in any dish that isn't dessert.
Yuck. I mean, I like bell peppers, and I like mushrooms, but I also like several dishes just fine without them.
SO this weekend I decided to cook. We had baked ziti Friday night. Mark labeled it as "perfect", but I think he was just trying to make up for the disagreement we had Thursday evening prior to Catherine's injury. The ziti wasn't bad, mind you. "Perfect" might be a stretch, though.
Saturday, we had a dish which has become my favorite at the Cheesecake Factory and for which I found the recipe online. I can't name it, since it's their recipe, but it involves chicken, bowtie pasta and yes, bell peppers and mushrooms, but they're supposed to be there. Since this is my favorite CF dish, I was happy as a clam. Mark, who decided to run errands just when dinner was ready, had a few complaints about the slightly congealed cream sauce an hour later when he finally sat down to eat, but I figure that was his own darn fault.
Sunday was the real cooking effort. Catherine suggested Eggs Benedict for brunch. Since her other breakfast fave is fried dough, I was happy with the idea, and cooked up a storm of eggs & Hollandaise sauce. Then I prepped the artichoke dip appetizer, and after it was covered & in the fridge, boiled eggs for the egg-coloring we hadn't managed to get to yet. While they were cooling off, I prepped potatoes for a jammin' but very calorie-laden potatoe pie recipe from my best cookbook. After actually cooking the dip, and getting the ham in the oven, I had time to color eggs. Then, back to the kitchen to finish off. By the time we actually sat down to eat, I no longer had the appetite or the energy to do it justice.
Bananas Foster for dessert.
I feel like I've delivered a fairly gourmet weekend, during which there was also (a lot) of grocery shopping, plus cleaning, laundry, baths, compilation of Easter baskets, and dish-washing. I know that some people do all this work EVERY DAY (maybe not the Easter baskets). All I can say is, my hat is off to those OTHER people, and I was really happy to be back in the office today.
Phew.
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