Wordjanitor Strikes Again

Technology continues to change not only the tools we use  but the language we use to describe it. Wikipedia describes  consumerization  as: …an increasingly accepted term used to describe the growing tendency for new information technology to emerge first in the consumer market and then spread into business and government organizations. Consumerization absolutely affects technology, but confining the definition to information technology too narrowly defines it. The etymology pins the emergence of the term itself as early as 2001, which is a long time in  dog years  and at least a half century in technology. But the concept goes back far before Y2K. I could delve into Eli Whitney’s  cotton gin , but I’ll stick to less distant history. Before we get to IT, consider the impact of consumerization on time and choice. Consumerization & Time In some ways, our experiences with consumer technology have changed the very speed at which we live our lives. We ...

This post originally appeared on Cisco.com in March 2017.  We’re in the business of creating tools and technology for  collaboration . Everything we do is focused on making it easier for teams to work together and “get stuff done.” But putting the best tools in place isn’t going to create teamwork from thin air. If your organizational culture doesn’t actually reward people for working together, tools alone won’t make it happen. Few people would disagree that teamwork delivers results. But for decades, recognition systems in business have focused on individual achievement. This encourages the belief that if you want to get ahead, you have to make all the magic on your own – or at least make sure you’re the person to get the credit for it. Have you ever been in one of those giant quarterly team meetings where four or five people are called out as superstars? How many of those people truly did it all on their own? How many times have you been sitting in that meeting thinking tha...

I was sitting in this same spot almost exactly two years ago. (Actually, I think I was in the room next door, but what are 15 feet between friends?) I’d just arrived in Namibia for the first time. On that day, I had some idea of what the next two weeks would bring. Today I have a better idea, but I’m well aware that much changes along the way. Volunteering is often a good exercise in flexibility. In 2012, a friend gave me an opportunity that would change my life. He invited me on a medical mission. I’d already been managing the group's blog and social media for a few years. But the chance to actually travel with the team was something I’d hadn’t expected. I wouldn’t consider myself particularly adventurous, but I knew I had to go. And so, I found myself in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta with the International Extremity Project . Not only did my first trip provide an amazing life experience, but it helped fill a void in my heart. I realize that sounds a bit dramatic, but I’ll explain.

My kid has questions I can't answer. He wants to know how he's supposed to go to school and feel safe. I have no answers. I can't tell him that everything will be fine. I can't guarantee that. I can't lie. On the same day that a Florida teenager went into a high school and killed 17 people, my son's former PE teacher turned himself into the local police for child pornography and other related charges. Boom, crash, splat. He's 14. His sense of safety at school is shattered.  How does he know that someone won't come onto the campus armed and determined to do damage? How does he know that he can trust the very adults he's been conditioned to rely on since pre-school?   How do I answer those questions?

I try to make purchase decisions based on need vs. want. I'll often see something that I really like but opt out of buying it because I don't need it. I'd rather be happy with what I have than focus on wanting things I don't. (Yes, I did need the motorcycle. For mental health reasons. Yeah, that's it.) OK, let's not get distracted by facts. Admittedly, sometimes this need/want thing goes a little far. Exhibit A: I still have a bra that the dog chewed during her awkward post-puppy supportive undergarment chewing phase. She absolutely disabled another one, but this one survived with an interesting fringe in the cleavage area. It's serviceable. It's more of a yard-work bra than an office bra, not that anyone would really know. Until now, anyway. Bonus: I smirk every time I put it on.

TG likes to explain things. All sorts of things. And he likes details. Lots of details. Like today, he didn't have a level in Soquel because he didn't bring one from home so when he went to the store with J, B, and the kids he bought a new one. I made the mistake of making a pun about "taking things to a new level." And somehow that jump-started a very detailed discussion of cabinet installation. And about 17 other things.

Sometimes you can't do the things you're supposed to do. I was supposed to go to a memorial for a friend today. I couldn't. They're adding up. It would have been the fourth such gathering this year. Maybe that's not a lot, but it's enough for me right now. I'm tired of loss and focusing on loss. Real loss, impending loss, potential loss, metaphorical loss. There's a lot of it swirling around, near and far. I started running out of words. OK, I had words, but more often than not, they started resembling an unpunctuated string of cursing. I was running out of coherent sentences and paragraphs. I couldn't find them.

This whole Stanford Rapist Who Can Swim thing has been everywhere this week, and I haven't tried to escape it. I've read the letters, read the articles, and shared in the discussion. I found myself wandering between disbelief and outrage. It was strange to realize I've been in the courtroom of the judge who sentenced Turner to the prison equivalent of cleaning chalkboard erasers after elementary school. He annoyed me then. He infuriates me now. At first, I didn't talk about the Stanford case around my son. I didn't want to talk about rape. I didn't want to explain what Turner had done. I didn't want to talk about how a young man smart enough to go to a university as prestigious as Stanford could also be as vicious as to attack an unconscious girl behind a dumpster. But then, I did. I am raising a young man. I wanted him to see me angry, astounded, and affected by the case. My son can go toe-to-toe with me about how unfair it is that I limit his s...

I am angry. And I am sad. But at the moment, it's mostly anger. Keyboard and reader beware. That androgynous, faceless, scourge with too many names and ways of wreaking havoc.  That invisible stalker that sneaks in at the cellular level, latching on and demanding attention.  That predatory visitor that remains unseen until  it's too often too late.  It wins again. Today, cancer won again.  It won this morning, taking a young woman barely 30 from her world, her family's world, our world, this world. Quickly. Aggressively. Ruthlessly. I want to scream at cancer, cuss it out, kick it where it hurts, be heard. But cancer is a narcissist. It doesn't care that I'm angry. It knows nothing but itself and how to propagate until it wins.

First, there was a question of the location of the spare toilet paper. @ couldn’t find it. He looked in the right places. I told him to check the shelf at eye level. Oops, wrong eyes. TG had put it at eye level, except it was his eye level. (Remember, the T stands for Tall… ) Even better, it was at the back of the shelf. TG's choice of TP placement brought on a discussion of whether he was opposed to @ actually using toilet paper. TG claimed he was trying to get @ to think about Star Trek. @ had to think a second… Wait, Klingons? Yep. “Stop… that’s not funny.” Somehow that brought up a question of pronunciation. Specifically, is the name of the planet pronounced yur-ay-niss or yurin-us ? Where’s the syllable emphasis? Is it a long a or a short a ? Because yur-ay-niss just sounds gross and yurin-us doesn’t sound much better and it doesn’t even make sense anyway. I mean, why would pee come out of something labeled with a word that actually has the word has anus in it? ...

You'd think I had a crapload of cash hanging out my back pocket. I had neither crap, cash, nor a crapload of cash in my pocket. I checked. The safest lane for a motorcycle is the far-left lane. Not today. Apparently, a lot of people were in a "20 miles over? meh" hurry. I stopped counting after the 97th car tried to crawl up my, err... tailpipe. (OK, I didn't count. It's just a low estimate.) And the guy who tried to read the label on my jeans for 40 miles, but refused to pass until I actually pulled into a turnout? Charmer. "Perhaps you were riding too slowly," you think. Reasonable assumption -- after all, I'm a girl on a giant tricycle, right? I checked that too. My speedometer was quite clearly in the "this could be pricey" zone. Maybe if they realized I was in the midst of a 310-mile killing spree, they would have backed off. Shown a little patience. Evidence of many satisfying splats.

Blueberry is dead. Finally. Blueberry may have been the longest-living betta fish in the county for all I know. I searched "betta fish life span" and Google kindly told me "2 y on average (In captivity)" with a picture and everything. Yeah, Blueberry doubled that estimate. At least. Even after spending her first couple years in a pickle jar after she and her former neighbor fish called bullshit on the "females can be kept in the same tank" myth. Or maybe we just had particularly bitchy fish who missed the sharing lesson in school. (School. Fish. Yeah, I went there.)

First, let's be clear. I am not one of those people who has all of the holiday decorations staged and ready to put up immediately after the T-day turkey carcass has been turned to soup. Yet, there's a somewhat crazed looking eight-foot inflatable T-Rex on my lawn, complete with Santa hat, sweater, and a nifty little tree. Why? Because I wanted the Saint Bernard. As soon as I saw it, I knew I wanted it. Really, really wanted it. A nine-foot tall inflatable lawn puppy. Nine feet of awesome. Nine feet of cute. But I didn't want it because it's cute. Within minutes, maybe a few dozen seconds, I had a plan. I had it all figured out. I had a three-step plan.

Sometimes I just have to go back in time to laugh out loud. Enjoy.

This is so awesome. Sooo very awesome. I have a new title. I am now, officially, as proclaimed by my son, The Crusher of Dreams. I've earned the title over time, with many incidents proving my worthiness of it, because I am -- after all -- a parent. But my title was not until today bestowed upon me. And bestowed upon me with all of the melodrama such a title deserves. What, you ask, has brought me this honor? A piano. More accurately, parts of a piano. The disintegrating corpse of a piano currently basking in the twilight behind the middle school cafeteria on a large furniture dolly. Legless, lidless, and missing several keys, my son wants this piano for its nostalgic and historic value.

Three weeks ago, my dad called me with questions. By his tone and the less-than-subtle hint of frustration in his voice, these were very pressing questions: Why do we have so many damn towels?  Where in the hell did all of these sheets come from?  What am I supposed to do with all these damn towels? Who needs this many towels? Then two weeks ago, on a Thursday morning, it was abundantly clear why we had         so              many                        damn                                   towels. I come by my hesitance to ask for help honestly. It's inherited. Hobbled after a foot surgery, X gave me a bell so I could ring for help when I needed it. Me? Need? Help? True to form, I would wait until he was out of the house, then hop around to...

I did something different this year in preparation for Mother's Day. I asked for something. Specifically, I made a breakfast-menu request. And so, my day started with amazing cornmeal blueberry pancakes. TG (being TG) did more than standard recipe-research due diligence and came up with a very tasty formula. The best part of Mother's Day is that I get to be a mom to this amazing, intelligent, goofy ten-year-old sidekick. He's the kid who takes a shirt, tie, and jacket to his grandpa's house in the woods so he can dress up for my birthday dinner and Mother's Day breakfast. And he's the kid who surprises me with the facts he has amassed in his curious mind. He asked whether I knew what Thomas Edison had invented. Thinking the answer was obvious, I went straight to "incandescent lightbulb." True enough, but he was referring to the electric chair . Yeah, I didn't know that. And I gladly admitted it. Edison had more than 1000 patents, why...

S taging for Bikers for Babies will be on Park Avenue. Park your bike on either side of the street (someone will be there to direct you).  Check in with me to get your wristband and grab some coffeecake provided by Hobee's in the main festival area. Come back for the safety talk.  The event starts with speeches and a ceremony hosted by an executive from my company. A family will speak about their personal experience.  After the opening ceremony, they'll have a countdown, and the walkers will go down the middle of Park Street -- with us cheering them on!  Once they're clear, we're on our way!!! Vroooooom! A very personal request: Please observe the moment of silence during the bagpiper's playing of Amazing Grace to recognize babies who didn't survive. 

My day job is in marketing for a technology company. I've worked on a lot of projects, both as a content creator and as a reviewer. I'm sure we're not the only company that calls our "brand identity" team, the "brand police." And this video is so flippin' on the mark, it hurts :-) The video is a fantastic visualization of a post (or is it a poem?) by Kendra Eash on McSweeney's . The brand-approval process often feels more like cattle branding than I'd prefer. There's something to be said for creating a consistent image, but sometimes that effort goes further into the generic void than creative minds can stand...

I always tell my son something along the lines of "a little bit at a time adds up to something big." Not earth-shattering news. And I'm not sure he's really listening to me. But someone with a long list of stolen credit-card numbers is listening. Intently. And listening to the sound of ca-ching, as they charge your credit card $9.84 at a time. Living in the age of internet rumors and dramatic Facebook alerts about whatever the fake freakout of the week is, I wasn't immediately alarmed about this whole $9.84 fraudulent charge thing. But then I heard it on the radio. I saw it on the news. And I looked into it. No foolin' this time. The Better Business Bureau posted a scam alert last week advising people to look for fraudulent credit card charges on their bills. Specifically, a charge for $9.84 on your credit card bill. The "merchant" is typically a .com name of some sort. I checked my statement. I found the charge. Yep, there was a charge for $9...