Category: Family and other dramas

It may be obvious from previous posts, Best Tech Guy isn’t your average geek. He’s a technology consultant who also writes code. Unlike pure geekdom, consulting requires interpersonal skills. It also requires a bit, a gag, a sketch, a schtick, a number. Mine is obvious. I do my, “Your virtual space is like your physical space. Think of it like remodeling your home” routine, and clients instantly comprehend my expertise and my place in their world. Appreciating the niche work that I do makes them feel smart, and they hire me to do my thing. Best Tech Guy is popular with our clients too. His thing usually involves arrogance and a British accent. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, he does the number known as, “I read it in the New Yorker, so it must be true.”

Warning: spoiler alert. This is the part where I blatantly rat him out, probably because I can’t compete with the British accent. (I’m well practiced at the arrogance.) Best Tech Guy’s theory is that all smart, well-educated, liberal Bostonians, i.e., 95% of our clients, subscribe to the New Yorker. But because their lives are full of competing priorities and your average New Yorker article is the length of a bible, nobody reads it. So when he wants to make a point that no one will argue with, he confidently cites some New Yorker article he claims to have read, knowing full well that any self-respecting liberal will shrug non-committedly rather than admitting to not having seen nor read the fictitious article in question. It’s better to keep up the pretense that we all have time to read the New Yorker, we just missed that particular article, rather than admitting that being part of the in-crowd means compulsively renewing our subscriptions without ever making time to read past the “Shouts and Murmurs.”

It turns out, based on my own hypothesizing and analysis (totally unsubstantiated by proper research or third-party critical scholarship), he may be on to something. In class last semester, I had the pleasure of reading a range of great comic works from Allen to Wodehouse. We analyzed Oscar Wilde and Monty Python until exam time, aka, the moment I realized I should have taken better notes. The final exam was especially tricky, until I noticed something. The four anthologies on the syllabus shared a common characteristic. They were collections of humor pieces, some or all (in the case of Woody Allen) previously published in the New Yorker.

Here’s the exam question

Focusing on two or three writers—Benchley, Thurber, Allen, Sedaris—discuss the different ways in which they develop the short humor piece. Aspects to consider are style, tone, form, tendentiousness [intention to provoke or promote a particular point of view, often the author’s] or lack of it, etc. [he really did write “etc.”]

Here’s an excerpt of my answer. You can skip this part if you’re in a hurry. I’ll understand. Really. Go on. I’ll never know.

Robert Benchley, James Thurber, Woody Allen, and David Sedaris are all known for their short humor pieces. In addition to the publication of successful anthologies, each reached the height of success in his career—publication in the New Yorker magazine. All four essayists are known for their smart writing. They appeal to elitists and an audience in the New Yorker that considers itself intellectual. And the works of all four men are marked by a degree of tendentiousness.

Woody Allen’s aim is to mock intellectuals. That he does this in the New Yorker is the height of irony. His humor is dependent on his audience’s familiarity with the persons referenced in his essays. Schmeed, Metterling, Helmholtz—these may be household names, if your household is full of highly-educated, New York Times reading, politics-watching, probably Jewish, middle-class New Yorkers who regularly attend psychoanalysis. His humor is not for the masses, but for the very people whom he mocks. Allen is a smart-aleck, and he knows it. His target audience is a willing participant in this game. He mocks them for being intellectuals; if they were not intellectuals, they wouldn’t get the jokes; they would rather get the jokes and feel part of the in-crowd than get offended by being the objects of his jokes. And so the cycle continues.

Robert Benchley’s essays do not require the subject matter expertise that Allen’s call for (the holocaust, Hassidic Judaism, college, psychoanalysis, the atom bomb, Impressionism). His works appeal to a broader audience. The tone is far less mocking than Allen’s, and the language is simpler, making his essays accessible to a wider segment than the audience circumscribed by Allen. However, Benchley’s works are more likely to stray into absurdity. His very serious sounding essay titled Do Insects Think? is so strange it’s almost not enjoyable.  Presumably Benchley is mocking generations of scientists who have asked very ridiculous questions and spent years seriously attempting to answer those questions. This short essay pokes fun at the kind of absurd research that goes on in well-respected laboratories.

But again, a level of sophistication is required on the part of the reader. A familiarity with Shakespeare is required to enjoy Shakespeare Explained. An experience with ennui and an eight-course meal are required to understand Christmas Afternoon. These subjects and emotions may be more familiar to the average audience than the subjects of Allen’s works, but they still require an uncommon perception and a comfortable life. French for Americans may be enjoyable to a person who has never been to Paris. Perhaps a reader might be reassured to know that news from home is available at the American Express and the crullers are almost (but not quite) as good at the Hartford Lunch as they are at home. But it seems more likely that the untraveled reader will feel left out of the jokes. His laughter will have the hollow ring of the poseur.

Ultimately, I examined all four authors (yes, I am an overachiever), but only included analysis of two above to attempt to bore you a little bit less. The point of this ramble is that certain kinds of wit play to certain kinds of crowds. That may seem incredibly obvious, but in the case of the New Yorker, the individuals in question are so obsessed with being counted as the in-crowd, they will act like they get the jokes even when they don’t. And they will laugh at the jokes, even when they are the punch line. It’s writing for snobs, by snobs. Like that classic Seinfeld episode in which Elaine gains the confidence of a fictitious New Yorker editor to ask him why a particular cartoon is funny. He defends the cartoon by being pompous and implying Elaine is not smart enough to understand it. She calls his bluff. He admits it makes no sense. She tells him he should be ashamed of himself for printing it. Adding mockery to her shaming, she says, “You doodle a couple of bears at a cocktail party talking about the stock market, you think you’re doing comedy.” He replies earnestly, “Actually, that’s not bad.” Elaine, flattered, responds, “Really? You know I have others.”

Even Elaine, on a mission to discredit the sacred New Yorker editorial process, standing at the brink of success, would rather go out for the team than be right and alone. Being part of the in-crowd was a bigger success to her than proving them wrong. There are too many ironies to count, starting with the fact that Elaine is the New Yorker’s target audience. If she wasn’t, she would not have seen the cartoon. In an absurdly meta-twist, the cartoon featured in the television episode was drawn by one of the New Yorker’s great cartoonists, Bruce Eric Kaplan, and the real-life editor the television character was based on recently provided a not-funny analysis of the Seinfeld episode and the cartoon. (Yup, you guessed it: published on the New Yorker’s website.) He was bummed because the Seinfeld writing team didn’t use his real name. He wanted to be part of the gag, in with the coolest crowd on TV.

I’m sure I am making a much bigger point about human nature, pack animal mentality, our measures of success, and not being picked last for dodge ball. If it’s not quite coming together for you, I will leave you with this thought. None of this is relevant if you haven’t seen that particular episode of Seinfeld or read these authors. Trust me. I read it all in the New Yorker, so it must be true.

As a diehard New Englander, I love to complain about the weather as much, and sometimes more, than the next person. I believe a week of single digit days will make a complainer out of just about anybody. And I believe a single gal with a dog to walk twice a day deserves to complain once in a while. But I am not complaining. Not this time anyway.

Walking the dog twice a day means I go out just after dawn and again at dusk to experience those idyllically quiet times of day when everything is still. Chilly New England winter evenings mean few people, and sometimes snow. When snow falls at twilight, there is a noticeable hush. All other sounds are dampened by the blanket of white. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear the flakes land with a tinkling sound on stubborn leaves clinging to bare branches. It’s blissful.

Imagine a hood pulled up, cumbersome oversized gloves, clunky boots, soft neck warmer, and a dog dragging me down the street to the park. We make fresh tracks on unshoveled sidewalk and head exactly where we are not supposed to be. The park—ok it’s a schoolyard—at the end of the street is an on-leash park, not to be confused with the off-leash park around the corner and down an adjacent street. I know the difference. Leash on, leash off. I get it. A few years ago, I even acted the part of concerned citizen and supported my neighbors who established the Brookline Green Dog Program, the program that designates which parks allow off leash hours and which ones don’t.

I know I am breaking the rules when we play down the street. But I can’t help myself. Apparently it’s in my blood. According to a column in the New Yorker last year (one that I swear exists; I’ve read it, but couldn’t find it again to save my life) rule breaking is part of being Italian. The Italian woman interviewed explained it thus. Italians know the rules. And in knowing the rules, we know where they bend, and we know where they break. Ergo, we knowingly choose which rules to follow and which ones to ignore. Rule breaking by Italians is a long-standing tradition started by the most famous Italian of all, Julius Caesar. If it weren’t for good ol’ Julius* we wouldn’t have the idiom, “crossing the Rubicon” which means committing an act of civil disobedience—rule breaking at its best. Not crossing the river with an army was a rule; Julius broke it. He broke it knowingly, intentionally. On the eve of this egregious act of civil disobedience, Julius didn’t say, “I came, I saw, I thought about crossing the bridge and changed my mind.” I like to believe he said, “I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”** Will and when. It’s a question of intent.

Now back to my story.

The hush of twilight, new fallen snow, a warm coat, and a dog dragging me down the street to the not-off-leash park. I go because the massive and intimidating animal control officer, Francois or Jean Louis (I forget his name, but I swear he’s intimidating notwithstanding his girly name) is a nine to fiver. At around 5:30 there’s no one around but commuters walking home across the park, parents picking up kids from the after-school program, and one or two of my fellow rule-breakers. And that’s how I like it. Although I live in fear of my neighbors’ criticisms or worse, that one of them will call BPD on me, most winter evenings Pepper and I get to cut fresh tracks across the ball field which makes it all feel worth it. Every once in a while, we have an evening like Monday night.

I let her off leash at the top of the stairs so she wouldn’t drag me down the slippery steps. She raced ahead of me to the edge of the field, then bounced around to face me, and waited. Bouncing and waiting, mouth wide open in that carefree, excited doggie grin. A man was walking with his son. He noticed Pepper as she sped past them. He stopped and stared at her, then looked around for her human. I felt guilty and braced myself for the ax of judgment to fall. Conjuring arguments in defense of my rule breaking, I approached him cautiously. I noticed while I approached that he was very intent on solving this puzzle before him. Then he saw the ball in my hand, and something clicked. He smiled warmly, nodded, and called his son over. And they lingered there, in the cold, watching me throw the ball, laughing while Pepper bounded with reckless abandon across the white expanse, legs flying, ears flapping like wings, snow smeared across her face. She exhibited such unmistakably pure joy, it was impossible not to smile at her. The man and his son walked away very, very slowly.

I break this particular rule because these tiny interactions with my neighbors are more positive than almost anything else that happens in my day. It’s better than going to the off-leash park and having my morning ruined by aggressive dog owners. It’s better than driving anywhere in this town. It’s better than going to work where everybody wants something from me (because even doing a job I love for clients I adore can be exhausting). I may be a bit anxious about getting busted, but that is outweighed by the warm orangey glow of the lamplight casting long shadows around us. It’s outweighed by the kids who stare with wonder at Pepper’s impossible energy. It’s outweighed by the man who stopped two weeks ago to ask me if he could have a turn throwing the ball for her. I don’t know his name. I haven’t seen him since. But he made my evening.

It is in these tiny moments that life feels rich and full. The stars shine brightly; the universe sends out a hug. The air, the whole atmosphere, feels tangible and warm. And because my willful, premeditated act of civil disobedience is met with the best sort of neighborliness and kindness, an outcome that challenges the karmic balance of nature, the last thing I am about to do is complain about the weather.

*My dad has always referred to Julius Caesar as “good ol’ Julius” like he was a childhood school chum. I have no idea why. I have always assumed Dad knows something I don’t.

** Julius didn’t say this either. Despite years of assumptions on my part that the two expressions were related, the American Heritage Dictionary says the earliest recorded use of this idiom was by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in The Golden Legend (1851). A quick glance at the poem reveals a lot of talk about crossing bridges. And the line from the poem reads, “Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it, is a proverb old and of excellent wit.” It’s possible Longfellow was referring to Julius crossing the Rubicon, the original, fateful bridge crossing. I bet I could prove the relationship if I had the energy to do a lot more research. The story works without it, so I’m leaving it alone for now.

Change has been the norm these last few months. New job, new apartment…everything seems new. Added to that, I have a new primary care doctor. She’s smart, perky, and younger than I am. That’s new for me too and a situation I suppose I have to grow accustomed to, at least until I discover a Fountain of Youth. We discussed my changing personal situation and my medical history. After I rattled off the various ailments that led to the demise of my grandparents, she asked about my parents. In a very doctorly way, she said, “And your parents. How are they?”

She was asking about their health, of course. I knew that. I blurted, “My parents? They’re loonies.”

Nonplussed, the Good Doctor asked a follow up, “Is there a particular psychiatric diagnosis, or are they just being parents?”

I hesitated a moment, and then replied with a sigh, “They are just being parents.”

This conversation and many others set me on a steady course of pondering this week. Where exactly would I find a Fountain of Youth? And what does it mean to be a family? The answer to the latter came to me under the elm tree near the lake behind Wellesley College. Pepper and I were sitting in the cool, damp grass after a walk around the water’s edge. The air smelled of hay and lavender. Few noises disturbed us beyond the drowsy drone of insects, a small plane lazily buzzing its way across the sky, a jingling dog collar, and the crunch of shoes against pine needles. Warm sun, blue sky, a gentle breeze…the recipe for a perfect Sunday picnic on the lawn with family. Except it was just the two of us.

Then again, it wasn’t just the two of us. As we sat in the grass, I held a book in one hand and threw the ball with the other. (This is not quite the feat it sounds like. Pepper drops the ball in my hand, and she has a long runway. I can throw the ball in any direction without looking, knowing I won’t hit anyone.) I looked up occasionally from my book and noticed there were people around, watching us, sharing the day with us.

There was a dark-haired boy, about eight or nine years old, a budding photographer with an interest in the natural world, snapping away at everything with his small camera, taking pictures of Pepper. His parents laughed and joked with him in Russian (or some other Eastern bloc language; I admit they all sound the same to me). The father oohed and aahed as Pepper flew through the air shagging fly balls.

There was an elegant Japanese couple who paused on the path to cheer, “Good job!” when Pepper caught one off a bounce, leaping to reach it. They glided on after I returned their smiles.

There was a shaggy boy in a suit and tie, soaking his loafers in the wet grass. He was accompanied by two overdressed young ladies who turned out to be his sister and cousin, his companions for an afternoon wedding by the lake. As Pepper whistled past them, he remarked longingly, “I want a dog.” The girls giggled and the trio wandered toward a celebration under a white tent.

As I pondered the idea of family, I noticed—really noticed—the way these groups of people were families. They met the traditional definition of family. My family has always been different. Or perhaps it’s my definition of family that’s different. It’s been fluid, over the years. Perhaps because of a childhood characterized by family members coming and going. At times I’ve included, in my mental construct of family, friends invited for Thanksgiving dinner, a friend who slept on our couch for three and a half months, friends who asked us to be godparents to their children. Most people (myself included at times) would say these are just friends, not family. They would scold me and fall back on that cliché, “You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends.” As I work through the situation with the future-former Mr Snarky, I am increasingly less certain that statement is accurate.

I skipped my cousin’s wedding this weekend. My family, i.e., my blood relatives, all gathered in the middle of nowhere upstate to celebrate her wedding. I opted out. That may seem selfish to some, but it was the right decision for me. I opted to spend the weekend with people who love and support me without judgment.

There was my neighbor, having a tag sale. Although she is familiar with my situation, she and I barely know each other. We know each other’s dogs’ names but not each other’s names. Nevertheless, she sold me a curvy chest of drawers for $15 and helped me load it into my car.

There were the second degree friends (friends of friends whom I hope to make first degree friends) who insisted I take a large mirror off their hands, refusing to take any money for it. They loaded it into my car before I mount a defense. When I sputtered in protest, the spunky wife said with a laugh and a dismissive wave of her hand, “Fine. You owe me a drink.

“I owe you two,” I insisted. It was a large mirror.

“Sure! Two! Whatever!” she replied gamely.

There was a dear friend—the kind of friend who invites me in when she’s having a bad day and then proceeds to cook me dinner. She patiently listened to my ambling rants and wholly silly complaints. I repaid her with cucumber plants. She will repay the cucumber plant with pickles, thereby forcing me to think of some other way to show her I love her.

Our closest friends are the people we choose. They are like family but without the obligations. They are the ones we’re constantly paying it forward with or for or something. Happily doing favors with no expectation of return or keeping score, because if they love you just the same, some other favor will be headed in your direction.

I’ve tried to treat my own family this way for years. And it didn’t turn out the way I expected. So I’m giving up. But I feel neither doomy nor gloomy about it. Because don’t we pick our families all the time? Isn’t that what marriage and having children is all about? We choose to be together and to stay together. We grow a family, nurture, and cherish it. Sometimes, it fails. Sometimes, it doesn’t turn out the way we planned. Sometimes we leave them behind. Sometimes we choose to leave. If we’re good, we seize an opportunity to start over, to start a new family.

It looks like it’s just going to be Pepper and me for a while. But that’s ok. Family is what you make of it. I’m hopeful that we’ll get another chance to choose a new family. Maybe somebody will choose us.

Thought #55

Using Facebook as a PSA system is a great idea. It’s cool to see people spreading the word about Amber Alerts and other time-sensitive messages over social media channels. The problem is when the post that the child was found is hidden way below the post that says the child is missing. These actions (the finding and the losing) happen in a chronological order. Therefore the finding should appear at the top of the chronological list. Except Facebook is curating content so that items that meet a set of rules only understandable to Facebook appear at the top of the list. In this case, the losing of the boy generated tons of comments. It was deemed more important and bumped to the top of the list. The finding of the child was met with sighs of relief and fell below the fold.

Thought #54

I like a good curated experience better than the next person. I think that’s why Spotify is not for me. I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl. I have a favorite DJ (John in the Morning on KEXP) and he turns me on to new music. I will take his recommendations and browse the iTunes store and Amazon MP3s (I only buy from Amazon now though—fewer DRM restrictions) and listen to the related artists. I buy what I like, and add the new songs to existing playlists or create new ones. Could I apply that same process to Spotify? Probably. But it feels harder somehow. Like I have less control over the experience and the music. There’s no help there, no recommendations. There’s no process of discovering new things I will like. Maybe there is; at this point, that’s my perception. I do like Turntable though. It’s nice to turn it on to a fun channel and listen to what other like-minded people like. The only thing missing is a Buy button.

Thought #53

Another thing that got me wondering at UI16: the number of people in the room my age or older. I was surprised by the general middle age of the people present. I expected the attendees to trend toward a younger crowd. Was this due to the experience level of the folks in the room? Our familiarity with the sponsor organization? Access to budgets to be at the conferences? Maybe they are learning it all in school while we are learning it on the job. Or was it something else…was it because younger designers know (or think they know) how to design for mobile and handheld devices because they were born with cell phones in their pockets? It’s native to them in a way it cannot be for the rest of us.

Thought #52

At UI16 in Boston last week, I witnessed the second reference to Google+ as a professional network in about three weeks. Statistically speaking, these data are not impressive. But anecdotally, they are interesting. The idea of using Google+ as a collaboration space—a space away from your friends (on Facebook) and away from your resume (on LinkedIn)—within a private networking is fascinating. It’s fun to think geeks and academics have a new place to hang out together and talk about research and writing. I wonder, and kind of hope, it will catch on for this specific purpose. It doesn’t seem like it’s catching on for any other purpose.

Thought #51

Why did they change the shape of the butter? Did the butter just wake up one morning and say, “I need a new look.”? Or did it suddenly realize its past has all been a façade and declare, “Hey, it’s time to face facts people. I’m fat. That’s right…fat…and short. It’s time that I revealed my true fat self. No more tall skinny sticks for me.”

Thought #50

Instead of doing the work that’s causing me stress, I’m stress eating like there’s no tomorrow. Except there is a tomorrow. You know how I know? Client meetings. Lots and lots of client meetings.

Thought #49

I spent 100 bucks at Whole Foods the other day and I feel like I came home with a bag full of bread and cheese. Now my brain is telling me it’s the best damn bread and cheese I’ve ever eaten. Is it really? Or is my noggin trying to avoid the cognitive dissonance associated with spending 100 bucks on bread and cheese? This is my brain. This is my brain on cheese.

Thought #48

NPR referred to this kid as a mastermind. He’s 19. Call me ageist, but that seems a little young to be a mastermind.

Thought #47

Don’t worry, you didn’t miss random thoughts 1-46. I just thought I would start in the middle. And 47 seemed like a good number.

Ok here it is. Once and for all people, lions do not live in the jungle. Tigers live in the jungle. Tigers don’t have spots; they have stripes. Lions are born with spots, but they lose them when they become teenagers. Thank you. That is all.

I’ve always known that I have no poker face. This fact is a point of pride for me. Although on the rare occasion when I want to negotiate with a car salesman, I generally end up getting screwed, I appreciate the fact that people almost always know what I’m thinking. (I hope they appreciate it too.) Forget wearing my heart on my sleeve; my feelings are plainly written across my face.

I learned today that I also don’t have the equivalent of an online chat poker face. A witty salesman named Simon—analogies to Simon Says and the Pied Piper are suddenly running through my head—got me to give up some information today that I wanted to keep to myself. It turned out well in the end. But had it gone the other way, I could have learned a very hard lesson about my online privacy.

It all started out as an innocent chat. We were just talking (boy, if I had a nickel for every time I used that line as a teenager…). That’s how it always starts. Just talking. I was researching a merchant account provider for a client’s new ecommerce site. This is a thing I know almost nothing about: the back end of credit card processing for online retailers. And I wasn’t in the mood to talk to a salesperson. So I took advantage of the online chat feature. Simon eagerly popped into that happy little window docked in the corner of my browser. He answered all of my questions and then asked a few of his own. When I asked about higher education discounts, he asked what school I was referring to and what they were selling. I answered the latter question and declined to answer the former. The answer to the product question is digital downloads. Simon understood that I couldn’t divulge the name of my client. And he seemed genuinely interested in the digital downloads.

“Very green,” he typed.

I sent him back a smiley face. He took that as encouragement and buttered me up by asking, “Are you interested in our partner program?” He explained that if my client bought their service, I would get a commission.

I typed, “I think that would violate the terms of my contract with them. And they are a law school, so I probably shouldn’t mess with them. Thanks for asking. But no thanks.”

He laughed in reply and was understanding once again. “We work with lots of universities. You may be able to negotiate discounts with our enterprise team.”

“Great,” I typed. That was helpful information and it got them on my shortlist.

What I didn’t realize was that Simon had me right where he wanted me. And then he pounced. “Can I get your name and email for my boss? So we can send you an email with his contact information.”

I typed my email address and let him know I would have my client contact his boss directly. A split second later, the following words appeared in the popup window. As I read the words, the happy ding sounding the new message suddenly sounded like funeral bells: “if it’s [Acme University] my boss is going to @#$! himself.”

My mind raced. It stopped. It started. How did…What did I…What the f…. With a brief pause for me to giggle and think, Did he really just…? And then back to panicking, Hmmm…Email…Oh, my Web site…Dammit! It took Simon approximately 0.4 seconds to go from my email address to the name of a major university that I work with. Extract the domain name from the email address, put a www in front of it, stick it in a browser, and hit Enter. One click to the About page and there it is.

It took another 0.4 seconds for me to beat myself up and formulate a response. Rather than confirm or deny, I went with the un-denial. I replied, “no comment.”

That earned me another smiley face and a very eager inquiry regarding what other questions he could answer for me. We chatted a bit more and I pondered whether I had done the right thing for my client or if I had been naively duped by a clever 23 year old salesboy. (For the record, I have no idea what Simon looks like, but I’m imagining a young, floppy-haired, techie, hipster who rides a bike to work and listens to bands I’ve never heard of.)

As I write this now, I realize the part that really stings is that I reluctantly learned two lessons I would have preferred to avoid. 1) That my clients really do have legitimate reasons for asking me not to list their names on my Web site. And that they are in fact looking out for their best interests and not in fact trying to screw me out of taking credit for the really good work I do for them. Sigh. And 2) I now know what it feels like to be completely disarmed by some flattery, a little witty banter, and a clever boy with a better online chat poker face than I’ve got.

“You flash that smile and make your clients do what you want them to do, even when you’re wrong,” Best Tech Guy said to me once. “Turnabout is fair play,” Mr. Snarky says to me often. Is it really?

In this case, my openness worked to my client’s advantage. Simon used his powers for good, and his boss offered them a juicy discount. But it could have gone the other way. My inadvertent disclosure could have made the prospective vendor see dollar signs. I would have wasted my client’s time. I could have looked like an ass for recommending a vendor that attempted to overcharge my client with malice aforethought. And it would have been entirely my fault for trusting in all this internet stuff. But hey, I sort of have to, right? I’m adding this to the list of occupational hazards. If I don’t fully embrace the technologies and communities I help design, then I would be a hypocrite who’s not very good at her job.

Confession time: I’m particular about words, and I always have been. I’m an avid reader, and love to write. But I struggle sometimes when I communicate. This may (or may not) be super obvious to the people who know me well. Sometimes when I’m overtired or worn out, I stutter and lose words—that’s how it feels in my head. I attempt to speak, to use the perfect word, but my brain goes dark. There’s a gaping black hole the size and shape of the universe where the word should be. It’s incredibly frustrating, which makes me upset, which worsens the situation. I have taken to calling this condition stress dyslexia.

I bring this up because I was recently catching up on some reading on my iPad. The Dictionary.com app popped up the Word of the Day. It was a word that I knew, but I followed it anyway, just for fun. (Side note, the iPad app is not great, but it’s okay. The Word of the Day push feature works well, but doesn’t automatically update today’s word when you click through.) Beside the definition of the word that I followed (that I cannot recall now), there was an article about dyslexia. Due to my recent obsession with this condition, I gave it a read. It turns out it’s not a retention or memory problem but a problem with recall. Yup. I got that. Nothing wrong with my ability to learn words or my memory. I just can’t conjure the words I need at crucial moments.

Perhaps that’s why I try to be so particular and tend to criticize others’ word choices. (For the record, that’s a reflex, an impulse, and not something I do with malice aforethought or intent to criticize.) For me, writing is easier than speaking. I can take the time to make deliberate word choices and edit those choices. When I’ve had a good night’s sleep, I do ok in person. I am probably never as clear as I think I am except in those rare moments of controlled rage when I manage to say the things I want to say exactly how I mean to say them. Perhaps the adrenaline helps. That seems like a reasonable assumption based on the drugs used to improve kids’ attention spans. (But that’s another tangent or possibly two tangents, not necessarily on the same curve.) I am easily distracted, but that’s not the same as having an attention problem. I don’t think.

Back to bad word choices. My husband and I were recently driving through one of the wealthy Boston suburbs (one of the Ws) and drove past a pack of teenagers waving signs and shouting at passing cars. If you’re thinking car wash, you guessed it. There were easily 12-15 of them on the corner attempting to raise money for a 9-11 memorial. I know that because one of them was holding a sign that said “help impact the 9-11 memorial.” My reaction to this was slow…very, very slow. I mean I’m pretty quick most days, but this was…wow, really? Did they really say that?

Not only is “impact” the most overused word of this and the last few years, but I’m struggling to think of a word that could be less appropriate in the context of a 9-11 memorial. We want to support, build, raise (not raze) a 9-11 memorial. We do not want to have any sort of impact on it whatsoever. We may want to have a positive impact on fundraising efforts, but that is not the same thing, and that’s not what the sign said.

Words can be trendy. I get that. I’m just as guilty of following the trends as the next person. Often those trends relate to slang or neologisms that spread through casual conversations or evolving business practices. All perfectly natural. I am especially prone to overusing slang when my stress dyslexia kicks in. It’s the propagation of misused and meaningless words that I find intolerable.

I blame consultants (like me) for the proliferation of empty jargon. In fact, I had a boss about five or six years ago who used the word impact so frequently, it’s possible that he is Patient Zero for the Impact virus. The fact that this disease has spread among children is a travesty of the highest order in my opinion.

It makes me wonder how this happened. Are their teachers responsible for not teaching them proper grammar? Is it because they are too lazy to understand the difference between affect and effect? Is it not enough for them to affect something or to have an effect on it? Is the physical implication of registering an impact, landing a blow, or creating a crater just too much to resist? Should I be blaming video games?

Seriously, maybe this all stems from kids sitting around too much and not being active enough. They don’t do verbs. They are avatars. In the real world they actually are. They feel compelled to add the “actually.” Perhaps because they spend too much time in virtual reality. This has spread to grown-ups as well. We don’t believe that something has happened unless it has actually happened. Not figuratively. Not basically or generally. It literally, actually happened.

I’m not sure which of these word phenomena I hate more. The effect on our culture is ridiculous. And I mean that in the original definition of the word: deserving of ridicule. In case you’ve forgotten, ridicule is a bad thing, not a good thing (unless you’re from the school of thought that believes any attention is good attention). Calling a thing ridiculous used to be derogatory. Now it’s so bad it’s good. I don’t have a problem with that. Not really. Except when I’m tempted to order the Ridiculous Sundae at Emack & Bolio’s, I want to know if it’s so ridiculous that it’s good or so ridiculous that it’s bad. Is it so yummy and bad for me that I have to have it, or is it so bad for me that I will regret it in the morning? I really need an answer to this question, people. For reals, has anyone tried one? Did it make you sick? Should I run right out and order one now? I need to know so badly, it’s ridiculous.

It bet it’s awesome. That’s traditionally my go-to word. Similar to ridiculous, awesome is a word I use a lot and often mean sarcastically. Even I know it’s difficult to tell when I’m using the word sincerely. And then there was the whole ironic awesome story. This one is worth the digression, trust me…

Mr. Snarky and I were in Seattle for July 4 visiting friends from college and their new baby, SBJ. After SBJ went to bed, our host and hostess invited a crowd of friends over for dinner. As the wine flowed, the conversation turned to Turntable (hah, no pun intended there). Our host was streaming music from the music sharing site, and we were discussing how it worked, specifically the Lame and Awesome buttons. One of the guests made a joke about frequenting a room (the Turntable lingo for a radio station) that occasionally included songs from Journey and REO Speedwagon.

If you’re wondering what’s wrong with that, think of any overplayed song from the early 80s. You’re remembering how much you loved those songs at the time. And you’re secretly thinking they were kind of awesome, right? But something else is happening in the back of your brain. Most of you would be embarrassed to admit that you ever listened to (forget admitting that you liked) those songs when they were current. Just thinking about it makes you cringe, right? Well that’s how the dinner conversation went. After another bottle or three of wine, someone suggested that what Turntable really needs is an Ironic Awesome button for those moments when you just “Can’t Stop Believing.”

We’ve become such a jaded, sarcastic, world-weary society that we don’t want to click Like. We want a Dislike button on Facebook. And we want an Ironic Awesome button on Turntable. We want it so badly that these words had to be spoken later in the evening, “John, you know there’s not really an Ironic Awesome button, right?” John [name changed to protect the gullible] was silent for a spell, and without a hint of embarrassment hung his head in disappointment. I laughed so hard, I cried. It was awesome.

Here’s the catch. There are [actually] things in real life that inspire awe: the Grand Canyon, the Eiffel Tower, Table Mountain. These are things that must be experienced with all of your senses. Watching the Travel Channel on a big screen tellie is not enough. Standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon on a 100 degree day in a spot where you cannot see the other side or the bottom or either end while wondering how long your water will last…standing under the Eiffel Tower and bearing witness to the gray-brown metalwork holding it all up, the three elevators it takes to reach the top, the whirling-vertigo feeling of standing below and craning your neck up, searching for the topmost spire…these things are truly awe inspiring.

Climbing Table Mountain on a summer afternoon in December (Southern-hemisphere summer) thinking of a friend who made it to Cape Town and didn’t do the climb and a friend of a friend who mistook the conditions and was overcome by fast-moving weather that changes in the blink of an eye from clear and dry to heavy and wet with poor visibility and unsafe climbing and dire consequences…these are things that must be experienced firsthand. How else would you appreciate that the walk up is cut into the side of the mountain like a staircase? The steps are [ridiculously] steep, requiring you to reach a hand to the cool, dusty stone and pull yourself up. How else could you grasp the perspective from the top across wild, unfamiliar ocean as the fog rolls in and the temperature drops twenty degrees if you can’t [actually] stand there and feel the breeze on your face? How else would you taste the sea on the wind or register the hue of the water or comprehend the scale of the Cape and its city if you don’t [actually] experience it yourself?

It’s not ironic awesome. It is awesome.

After three weekends away and too many late nights at work, I finally decided tonight was the night for watering the garden. It was starting to look extremely droopy, full of unhappy flowers and healthy weeds instead of the other way around. I’m uncertain how the weeds thrive while everything else suffocates in this heat. I guess the plants with the staying power—the ones that grow anywhere in any conditions—eventually win. I’m sure that’s a metaphor for something, but there’s no need to analyze it. That’s just how natural selection works, I guess.

The thing I find even more surprising, no, irritating, no, umm…I don’t know. The thing I notice every summer as if it’s a new phenomenon is how the plants I didn’t plant with my own two hands thrive. The hostas and ferns and creeping ivies come back bigger and better every year. There’s usually something new too, something hidden in the ground making a comeback or something dropping in from a neighbor’s garden.

Speaking of neighbors, my next door neighbor walked down our shared driveway as I was tugging on the hose.

“Isn’t it going to storm tonight?” She asked, while I wrestled with the tangled mess.

I shrugged and said, “It needs it. I neglect it [the garden] because I can’t stand dealing with this hose.”

“You should get one of those rolling things like we have,” she suggested with a nod toward her perfectly coiled water-delivery system.

As we continued chatting, my mind wandered a bit. I pondered why I didn’t get one of those rolling things or make more time for such a simple chore like watering. After all, I did spend nearly two whole weekends purchasing and planting all those flowers. The ones hanging from the trellis have died. The hydrangea is getting too much sun at the back of the house. And someone or something stole the only red tomato my plants have produced so far. The raspberries are great, but that’s because they grow like weeds. Red, ripe, juicy berries are popping up on seemingly lifeless branches. Every other day or so for two to three weeks, I’ve harvested small handfuls, enough to cover my morning granola. Nature is amazing.

So why don’t I put in the effort? For a totally stupid reason: because the hose is a situation. The spigot to turn on the water is at the opposite end of the house from where the water comes out—and in the basement. I have to go down into the basement, walk the length of the house, turn on the water, walk back to the other end of the house, up the stairs, and outside to the hose. Then I have to unravel the hose and drag it from the back of the house (where we have a few fruits and veggies) to the front of the house (where we have copious plants and flowers). Invariably, I then have to walk back along the length of hose and work out the kinks so the water will come out the spray nozzle. Rinse and repeat that last step until the entire garden is soaked.

This evening, my neighbor, Mrs. Green Thumb (not her real name), was strolling by as I stepped out onto the front sidewalk, balancing the hose under one arm and firing it like a canon at the cracked earth beneath my plants.

“Hello!” I greeted her cheerily.

“Oh, good,” she replied.

Her response did not match my greeting in the slightest, but I beamed back a warm smile that matched her own.

“We’ve been away,” I said, to excuse my obviously neglected plants while she stopped to appraise the situation.

“I think you’ve caught it in time,” she nodded her approval.

I nearly dropped the hose to throw my arms around her in gratitude. When it comes to matters of the earth and green, growing things, an endorsement from Mrs. Green Thumb is like a mandate from Mother Nature. I was proud and relieved by her words. I managed to restrain my joy as we chatted a moment longer. Then she walked on.

As I stood under an ever-darkening evening sky, I brooded about how much control I have over what grows. Most days (when I’m in an ever-darkening mood) it seems as though what wants to grow will grow, and what doesn’t won’t. My garden teases me. It gives me a false sense of authority. I can put things in and pull things out. But I can’t choose what will flourish and what will wilt during a week of 90+ degree heat. (That’s in Fahrenheit for any un-American readers.)

Standing in the hot dusk, the warm breeze pushed me around. The wind battered my skin blowing the thick, tight air closer. The cool spray from the hose provided some relief, but I focused the stream on the ground in an attempt not to waste the precious drops. As I concentrated the water and my attention on green leaves, my mind turned to my adventures in Africa. It has been Africa-hot here this week. Zimbabwe in early summer hot.

In Zimbabwe in early summer, Mother Nature performs an awe-inspiring and delightful trick. Barren, lifeless-looking trees sprout delicate, barely-visible spring buds in preparation for the approaching rainy season. Now you’re wondering, What’s so great about that? That’s what happens in spring, right? If creating something out of nothing doesn’t strike you as that amazing, ponder what happens next.

Gaya sends a rain storm, one short rain. The water disappears into hard-packed clay seemingly lost forever. But indeed, that one rain rallies the trees and shrubs to defy months of drought. Dry branches shrug off the dusts of winter. Leaves open. Trees turn green. That one brief rain primes the soil in preparation for rains that are yet to come. The leaves open, against all odds, to catch waters that are two weeks away yet. That one short rain forces the change in season. It gives the African bush the courage to grow and renew itself year after year. A rain storm that quick wouldn’t even register on the radar of a resident of Seattle, London, or Boston. But that storm forces the leaves to open so they can catch the coming storms. Two hot, humid weeks later, the heavens will open and the rains will start in earnest. Life will defeat death this year as it did last year. How the leaves and trees remember that while they sleep through dry and dusty winters may be just another example of natural selection. But it’s a wonderful, beautiful mystery to me.

As the evening light retreated, I pictured viridian Acacia leaves towering above rusty grasses surrounded by pure azure sky. I took my time finishing the watering. And when I was done, I coiled the hose neatly. Just as I finished, the sound of thunder rolled in on the breeze.