Bug in the Works OR Butterfly Workin'

This Golden Gate Park butterfly doesn't appear to be troubled by problems in her code

Go ahead and click on the picture for a more in-depth view of her world

I've been working away with the Objective-C programming language and the piece of software called Interface Builder.  Those are, of course, the  tools used to write apps for ipads, ipods and iphones. In my case, I'm still learning to do that.

I was up against a particularly nasty little bug in my program and finally, huzzah!, I found it. It reminded me of the  story from the old days, I mean the REALLY old days, kids. It dates back to around World War II. It's the origin of why programmers call problems in the workings of their software, 'bugs'. You all know the old story, right? The engineers had been tussling with some problem that was keeping the huge machine from doing it's thing. My college professor, Harry Huskey remembered those days. He had worked on the EINIAC. "Those vacuum tubes",  Professor Huskey told us. "they were always blowing, and we had to run around that huge room, swapping them out."  

So the problem-solvers on this day had been swapping out vacuum tubes, scratching their heads and dismantling things. Finally after days? hours? (depends on who's telling the story), they found the problem. A dead bug was found deep within the recesses of the machine. The programmers were so happy to find the problem, that they pasted the dead bug into the big ledger in which they noted their progress on the project. "Bug in the works", someone noted.

And of course, ever since then, a programmer works to find the bugs in her works. Because surely the problem couldn't be something SHE did.

A Marigold Moment (Butterfly)

Click on the photo to get up an up close and personal view

Another Inhabitant of the Conservatory of Flowers 

Golden Gate Park

San Francisco

You might also enjoy Do Butterflies Dream?

Do butterflies dream?

Please click on the picture above for more dreamy detail

Do butterflies dream?

I wished that I was visiting with this lady today, at the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park.


My friend, Judy wrote me to say,

"I'd call it 'Dining Out in Style'

There is an average life span of a butterfly - it is usually about one month.  Although the smallest butterflies that you can usually spot feasting on the flowers in your front yard will usually only live about one week.  Mourning Cloaks, some tropical Heliconians, and Monarchs are some of the only butterflies that have an average life span of about nine months. From the butterfly site, they don't sleep, I guess they only rest. "

I have been working on coding in C++ and Objective-C instead. Which can be as intense an experience as this butterfly is having- but, today,  not as colorful.

Sewing: Wearable Muslins – A Virtual Conversation with the Leader of the Movement

Oh -Yeahhhhh.... Listen In on  

My Pick-of-the-Month: The Simple Romantic singing a traditional American spiritual  

 Better than a Starbucks Pick-of-the-Week, cuz I brew it myself

Barbara’s Sewing on the Edge blog  yesterday , (her ‘fieldwork’ entry) inspired me to write a lengthy response, that I’ve added to, and included here. 

I first heard the term ‘wearable muslin’ in one of the ‘Grandma’s Sewing Cabinet’

podcasts.

Dr. Julie-Ann might have been talking about it in the ‘cast called, “Pardon me your muslin is showing’.

This is the quote from Barbara that I was responding to in particular. “Someone asked me recently what the purpose was in sewing so many white shirts, particularly when some may not be hits, as in misses.

Well there are many reasons, prime being because I feel like it, but in a sense they can be viewed as a series of muslins. I mean if I can come out of this with a couple of excellent shirt or blouse patterns and have nailed some techniques through practice, trail and error and more error, well I am ahead.”

. . .

What you said about muslins is what keeps me interested in the project that I keep starting to call “The Great White”  - yes like the  shark - project (it’s actually called the “Never too many white shirts project”). We’re making wearable muslins.

I’m thinking of these shirts as something beyond the next thing I plan to sew. They are a whole sewing concept in progress. They are figuring out what styles of shirt fit well and suit the way I actually wear clothes. They are a way to improve my sewing techniques. They are a way to make my sewing even more creative because they give me a new focus when I’m making notes or making a rough sketch while I'm waiting to do something else.

The project has also gotten me to fit in just a little more sewing in an unusually busy period in my life, because I'm doing more design thinking and planning than normal. It’s got me wanting to clear the decks of a final few projects so that I can be up to my elbows in (literally) white muslin. I already have (stash!) enough muslin for at least the first two shirts, and what is prettier and more delicate than a simple white muslin shirt.

Since I began to focus on this, the notes apps on my ipod is full of entries that start out ‘sewing’. Right now I’m focusing on sleeves. What do I really do with the sleeves on my shirts? I ROLL THEM UP, either ¾ length or to the elbow, depending on my activity.

So for my first shirt I’m going to try gathering a ¾ length sleeve to an open elastic inserted cuff with two buttons – one for each length. If it doesn’t work, then I either cut the sleeve shorter or try a plain cuff band. Hey – it’s MUSLIN. I could even cut the cuff out of some other material entirely – say that’s a fun idea!

Just need to finish the red toile (stash!) vest, lined with a red plaid (stash !) leftover , and long straight apron (remainder of the toile), the ipod bag (more stash!) and some other small project I can’t quite place… currently on the machine.

That muslin is coming out sooooo soon.

Time Travel Trip, The Winter Palace: Russia Bound (part 3)

Please, click on the picture to fully enjoy it's Russianesque roots

Judy Дорогая моя,

I'm not quite sure where I left off writing you in my last letter. That Period Pilots trip I took to past times Russia was so different than what I expected, that it's really been hard trying to put all the pieces together.

I remember telling you about the initials I saw when I was starting to heat up that old samovar. It was just about the time I first made the letters out, that the portal started to do it's thing. You know how rough leaping a few decades or centuries can be, even in the smoothest forms of transport. And traveling by samovar, is definitely not the easiest way I've ever blasted through to the past. I'm still turning stray Keemun tea leaves out of my pockets. From the smell of it, I think it's that mix they call Russian Caravan.

I stopped writing and put down my fountain pen,  leaned my head against the edge of the window frame and let my thoughts drift dreamily back to the events following my crazy journey back through time to, a certain palace in Russia in the year 1896.

The redheaded woman had been sitting beside me on the garden bench, where I found myself once the world stopped spinning. The fact that she was totally nonplussed by the sight of me in my nylon jacket, tee shirt and kahki trousers told me something about her right away. Do-it-yourself time travel is all well and good for some people, and in some situations, but there are services that are really worth paying for. Tour guides are one of the nicest features about Period Pilots. She introduced herself as 'Alina' and told me that I had arrived safely in 1896 St. Petersburg.

That news coupled with an impression of luxurious surroundings, helped me emerge from my time-lag lethargy. The last days of Imperial Russia, and the last of the Romanovs aren't a travel itinerary that's easy to achieve. I might get a chance to see Nicholas and Alexandra at the height of their reign!

"You're ready to go now?" her voice had a lilt that told me she might be a native.

I nodded, unsure as to whether or not my vocal chords were fully functional yet.

" Xорошо, good. You need to change quickly. People will be coming through here soon. Put this over your clothes in case anyone sees you."

"This" was a long cape of midnight blue velvet that covered me from head to toe. Securely wrapped in this confection, I stumbled after Alina through a small side door off the courtyard and into a maze of dimly lit halls that seemed to go on forever. I took in none of the details of the palace around me, other than the fact that the ceilings were high and the lighting was poor. And then we opened another door and found ourselves in an intricately decorated rococo marvel. A domed ceiling was lit by a dusky light that filtered in through the windows that students of architecture call 'lunettes'. Saintly images were highlighted in their half-moon glass and the light  of the setting sun, that passed through them, made the gold embossed plaster walls beneath them glitter.

"You'll need to change in here." Before I had a chance to protest that I wanted to spend more time enjoying the scenery, Alina pulled me into a tiny chamber of much more plebian origin than the Grand Church of the Winter Palace.

"I studied the small barren room. Not much in comparison, is it?"

"Well, Princes Alixi primped here before she married the Tsar two years ago. How many women can say they’ve shared a dressing room with an empress?"

I agreed that there was something to be said for that, and we got down to business.

Luckily for both of us, I have the kind of long, thickly curling hair that's a natural for pompadour-type styling. I might not be able to compete with more elaborate courtly coiffures, but I'd pass muster.

"So what are the plans? Some kind of court function tonight I take it? And then what?"

Alina was expertly wielding a wet brush. She spoke through a mouthful of hairpins. "A court function, yes, evening tea here in the Winter Palace. Their imperial highnesses are at home in the Alexander Palace, so we were able to accommodate you. You will have a chance to visit with some of the locals and take in the atmosphere. But after that, you must go on. We have arranged another portal for-"

"That sounds like a cruise ship stopping in port for five hours! I want to spend more time here and really see something of the place."

She poked a hairpin into my scalp and turned me around to face a small, dark mirror. "Things are unsettled even at this time. We can't be assured of your safety."

"But the revolution's not for twenty-one years."

She shrugged again. "Now it is time to deal with your underpinnings."

The batiste lingerie with it's delicate blue ribbons and fine Brussels lace insertions was a delight to slide into. It was followed, however, by pure torture. Corsets are one of the nastier aspects of past times. I'll take fully functioning ribs and organs over a narrow waist any day. The laces were every bit as horrid as I'd imagined and I emerged gasping for air. My tour-guide laughed.

"I always forget that you twentieth century women have no skills when it comes to boning. Don't gulp and don't move too quickly. You don't want to hyper-ventilate when you're wearing stays," she advised.

And then there was the dress and it made everything that had gone before worthwhile.

"Is this Worth?"

She shrugged. "No, but it's a good copy. We've got a seamstress who can mimic anybody. She's been doing very well for herself back in the Renaissance, and she's about to start working on a contract with, oh I always forget her name-," she snapped her fingers, "-you know, she was Tutmose II's wife. I went back and drew up the terms for her myself."

"Oh, I know just who you mean. And now I can't think of her name either! What a great job you have. It must be wonderful to travel so much."

"The travel is good, but it makes it hard to have a relationship and a life in my own time. But for a few years I am doing it while I save for my dowry. The money is very good."

"I imagine it's not easy for Period Pilots to find people with the right skill set. Have you- Oh I remember the wife's name now, Hatshepsut!"

"That's it! Talk about palace intrigue. Those Egyptians have the Romanovs beat." She was clearly conversant in the English of more than one era.

"Have you spent some time in twentieth century America, Alina?"

"Mostly the sixties. I love the colors and the mini skirts. So much prettier, and more flattering than what comes afterwards."

"I know. The skirts look like feed sacks."

She nodded seriously and pulled the gown all the way out of the armoire.

The gown that emerged was a delectable rose-colored silk confection with a low square neckline and a detachable train. The bodice and sleeves were embroidered with bouquets of lilies set with tiny pearls.

I fingered the jeweled embroidery. "Are these real?"

"Yes. And to answer your next question," she smiled showing a lovely full set of teeth, "you do have to give it back at the end of the evening." Now let's get you into it.

Getting into the dress was more work than I'd imagined. There was more boning to fight with in the bodice and layers where layers shouldn't be. The slippery silk bunched up and needed to be coaxed down over the unfamiliar underpinnings. These duds were clearly a job for more than one woman.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the edges of the rose pink skirts were finally settled just above the floor. "And now we have only to hook you up behind." Alina had just bent to begin this task when the door rattled. I froze but she jumped to her feet quickly. "It's probably Sergei. This is the time when he comes to light the evening candles. He doesn't know about you though, so I will just slip-"

The door opened then and a dark form came in, shutting the door cautiously behind him. When he turned to face us, I saw an extremely tall man with dark, hair curling against a long neck. He seemed unsurprised to see two women, one in a state of deshabille. I put up one hand to the gaping bodice of my Worth-like costume, in almost a parody of feminine modesty, feeling suddenly breathless, and not only from the corset. It was as though an electric current had passed through me with the entrance of this man.

To Be Continued

¿Por qué no a little culture right where we live?

. . .

This little girl and her chihuahua live close by. 

I didn't have to travel to distant lands to meet them.

. . .

Oh -Yeahhhhh.... Listen In on   

My Pick-of-the-Month,

The Simple Romantic singing the  traditional American spiritual , Train is a-Comin' 

My Pick-of-the-Month  is Better than a Starbucks Pick-of-the-Week, cuz I brew it myself

. . .

I needed a break from my self-guided review of everything I’ve learned about Objective C (my apps writing class starts next week). So I walked over to the Menlo Park Farmer’s Market. The lovely-smelling narcissus from Bert’s Bulbs were all sold out by the time I got there.  Good for Bert! I wandered on to a vegetable stand that had a few daises and chrysanthemums left. While I was waiting in line with my two bunches, yellow and red always make a nice combination, an elderly man passed by on the other side of a table full of red and white carrots. He was clearly one of the vendors at the market and was carrying large plastic pails back to one of the trucks parked behind the stall I was visiting. The pail-carrying man’s skin was a similar pasty-color to my own – a hue that is typically called ‘white’ or, around here, ‘anglo’. His first language is likely English, as is mine.

The man accepting money from the market goers called out to him in Spanish and pasty-face nodded his head in agreement. I wasn’t paying much attention, I can’t always follow quickly paced Spanish phrases, but I think he said something about checking for more of a certain type of produce in the truck.

Another elderly man, also pasty-faced and wearing a blue jacket, was standing nearby  as the pail-carrying fellow walked past. “Did you understand any of that stuff he was saying”, this man called out loudly in a voice absolutely dripping with sarcasm. The elderly man heading towards the truck simply gave him a long look and continued on with his pails.

I turned my own head in the direction of the speaker. “¿Por qué no? (Why not?) ” I asked. Yes, it is pleasant when the right riposte comes to mind at the right moment! Especially when it comes to mind in a second language.

It was my turn to pay. The money-accepting man and I spoke only in Spanish. It isn’t that hard to remember how to say: How are you? Two (bunches of) flowers, thank you. Yes, that’s all, and finally, hasta luego (see you soon). The guy works at the farmer’s market. We both knew that he could have communicated with me quite easily in English. We just both wanted to make our point.

Here’s what I wonder about Señor Blue Jacket. Has the guy ever traveled out of the U.S.? Menlo Park is a wealthy area, and he looked pretty well off. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he’s gone more than once to another country. And I would bet you dollars to dinero, he’s gone to some place where people spoke a language other than English. What do you bet that he went because he wanted to have a cultural experience? Maybe he wanted to see something different and go where people didn’t act, dress and talk EXACTLY like they do in Menlo Park.

Hey, here’s a novel thought. He could have a cultural experience right here where he lives, if he had enough culture to try. He could listen in on the islander kids at the library. They like to put Tongan and Samoan words into Rap music. How many places do you hear that happening? He could go to Nak’s Market and ask about how the owner cooks up his supper. Maybe he could even learn a little Spanish and have a discussion with the produce seller at the farmer’s market about farming methods in the Salinas Valley, compared to those in Senora where the other man comes from. Those talks lead to other culturally-enriching discussions. Plus it’s just fun to learn to be friendly. And he wouldn’t even have to plunk down any money for a ticket out of here. Because we’ve got quite a lot of culture right here where we live, if he just opens his eyes and ears and appreciates it.

I suggest that we create a new day to add to those lists of things to celebrate like: Dolls Day, Teacher’s Day, Administrative Specialist Day and National Pie for Breakfast Day (that’s the day after Thanksgiving, my sister-in-law created it). Let’s make January 16’th “Speak Some Other Language Day”.

Let’s show a little culture.

Time Travel Trip, The Samovar's Story: Russia Bound (part 2)

Judy Дорогая моя, 

I wrote in my last letter, that I’d fill you in on my little Period Pilots jaunt to past times Russia. Funny thing about that trip, it didn’t work out at all like I’d planned.

Isn’t that always the way it is when one of us goes on an excursion?

I did my homework really thoroughly and had pretty much decided that I’d head back to the court of the Russian Empress Elizabeth, mainly to check out the outfits. I mean, some of those clothes are to die for, literally in the case of a some of her servants I guess. But wouldn’t you just love to get close to some of those dresses; silks and satins in bright colors, and absolutely encrusted with jewels. 


The woman had thousands of dresses! Would she even notice if I started trying a few of them on, in one of those more deserted palace wings? I would guess her ensembles would probably not be something I’d want to have to slip into on a daily basis, but for just one night, I wouldn’t mind being a lady-in-waiting. I’m pretty sure if I just showed up in a big group of women, properly togged out, she’d never even notice me. I hoped that if she did notice me, she wouldn’t recognize an outfit she wore once five or six years back. It would be so worth it if I got to attend one of her banquets and check out some of that beautiful Russian court porcelain of the period.

Travel Plans Journal: Note To Self: Keep a low profile. Do not cheese the Empress off.

It’s not just the clothes. I was also crazy to see Rastrelli’s work on that Rococo palace of hers, out by St. Petersburg. The aftermath of World War II leaves so much about the palace to the imagination. Though, if we’re voting here, I’ll take major property damage over genocide, mass murder and lengthy sieges any day.

Travel Plan Journal: Note To Self: When it comes to reflecting on the horrors of past times, remember that my own responses to rotten situations, might keep other people from turning into monsters. Just be kind!

Hummmmm…. Where was I? Oh yea, back in time in Elizabeth’s pied-a-tierre outside of St. Petersburg.

You know I’m a nut for blue and white, chinoiserie and anything gilded. The first two are all your fault, of course. You’re the one who got me going on blue willow motifs back in our freshman year. Of course I’ve got my own modern day set of willow-ware now, but wouldn’t it be fantastic to see some of the originals that inspired centuries of fascination with those designs? Yards and yards of blue and white and not just ormolu clocks and picture frames, but gilded walls, ceilings and roofs.

It sounds like the little place in Tsarskoye Selo had it all. No wonder that after a few centuries of rulers indulging themselves like that, the citizens got cranky and had a revolution. That woman’s spending habits make those people at AIG look like a bunch of monks who’ve taken a vow of poverty.

I wasn’t totally committed to Elizabeth’s reign, though. I also considered heading back just as far as Catherine the Great’s take on that same little part-time residence. All her complaints about how much Elizabeth spent rebuilding the house six times and then what did the budget-minded Catherine do? Well who doesn’t like to redecorate? I sure wouldn’t mind taking in that cool, spare Greek Revival look she went for, with Adams fireplace mantels and Neo-Palladian arches. Yum!

And don’t even get me started on the way the gardens must have looked back then!  I was planning to set aside a day just for those. I wonder how the photographs would have turned out….

Everything was pretty much set. I’d arranged for someone to come in and feed and walk Rufus for a few days, stopped the mail, and packed. There are few items I find essential.  Even when I pickup clothes when I get there, I’ve rarely found adequate replacements for my own toothbrush and deodorant, though the people around me in my past times destination always seem to be perfectly satisfied with whatever they’re using, or in most cases, aren’t using.

I got my boarding pass for Period Pilots online. There was some problem with the queue for the closest portal, of course(!),  and it looked like there was no point in leaving for another hour at least. You know I like to have a good attitude about things like that, so I figured I’d just use the time to get myself culturally acclimated.

I don’t know if I told you that I bought a beautiful old samovar at a garage sale a couple of weeks back. (The things people throw out in Atherton!) It’s a bit of a job heating the water, since I have to heat it outside over an open flame, but I’d rigged up my own little mechanism using the camp stove and my ancient Webber barbeque. (No, I don’t actually recommend this as a safe practice.) It’s also good to do outside because I have to stuff charcoal down inside the chimney and that gets all over me and, well it just gets all over everything!  I suppose it seems rather silly heating up all that water just for myself, for a short period of time. It certainly doesn’t fit the whole point of the lengthy communal tea drinking experience. What can I say? I was in the mood, And so the whole process seemed worth it.

That samovar is a beautiful thing. It’s silver. No, I didn’t say it was cheap! People who live in Atherton know what things are worth. That’s how they stay rich. But I paid less than I would have for the markup in an antique store, and the householder got a better deal out of it than if she’d paid the auction percentage. The antiques market isn’t doing that well around here right now anyway.

That’s solid silver Bud, not plate!.  There are monograms above the tap but the engraving is pretty much worn away. The lady I bought it from hadn’t been able to decipher them or known anything about who it had belonged to. While the water was heating I got out my antique mother-of-pearl magnifying glass to try to check out the letters. Do you remember when I got that glass, the day we went to Portabello Market?

That is the best glass! I see things with that I’ve never seen with my super-sewing magnifier.  Not only could I distinguish a ‘N’ and maybe an ‘A’, I was able to make out some kind of crest just above the monogram.

I was trying to get a better view of the crest symbol, when the oak trees in the patio started to vibrate. I knew right away what was happening, so I turned off the stove and zipped my jacket pocket with my toothbrush and deodorant up right away. It’s not the first time Period Pilots has gotten their wires crossed.

Who would have thought that old samovar was a time portal?

It’s getting late. I’m looking forward to telling you more about my trip in my next letter.

Larisa